


Beyond the Abyss and Oblivion

by FanficsbyVe



Series: Lost Souls On Nirn [1]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls II, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:29:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 153,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4979032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanficsbyVe/pseuds/FanficsbyVe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This work is based on Skyrim mods and details the story of several deceased Dark Souls characters as they transcend and end up in the province of Skyrim. Is being continued again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oblivion Walker

**Author's Note:**

> This work started out as a joke, but since my friends like it, I decided to post it here anyway. Who knows, it may entertain you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artorias the Abysswalker faces Oblivion and Hircine, the Great Hunter himself.

“…All of you…forgive me… For I have availed you nothing…”

Artorias could no longer remember how many times he had repeated this. An apology to all his comrades, whispered against the endless dark. Darkness was all around him. A bitter, cold darkness that seemed to chill his very bones. 

This was not the same darkness that corrupted him in the Abyss. It wasn’t raging or hungry, not pulsating with twisted energy. It was not corrupting him, blinding him like he was trapped in some kind of feverish nightmare. For all the pain and horror it had caused him, he almost wished it was. It was better than this apparent purgatory.

He could barely recall his last moments. The dark had all but overtaken him. His voice had been reduced to screams and he felt naught but anger, even when he finally fell to the blade of the wandering warrior that came into the coliseum where he dwelled. Then he had suddenly found himself here, in utter silence and in obscurity. Wherever he was, he somehow knew he had not been condemned to the Abyss.

Instead, the darkness he found himself in was silent, cold and omnipresent. It came at him from all sides, seemingly watching him and judging him. It seemed to wordlessly taunt him with his failure, the endless blackness insinuating a never-ending loneliness. Here, there was no light or even twisted form of life. No rest for the wicked. A plane of absolutely nothing, forever cut off from everyone he ever loved or cared about. 

His chest ached at the mere thought of them. Gough, Ornstein, Sif, Ciaran… He had failed them all, losing himself to the threat he was supposed to protect them from. Now, he would never see them again. His comrades, his companion and the woman he loved were forever out of his reach now and all there remained was this void that would never stop and would never be kind enough to put him out of his misery.

Perhaps, he thought, this was punishment for his failure. Punishment for being foolish enough to think he could withstand an inhuman power beyond comprehension. For lacking caution and damning everyone to be corrupted by the Abyss. For those only blackness awaited, an emptiness that could not be escaped, and once confined, one would remain forever aware that they were trapped.

The weight of this notion seemed to crush him. It cut the air from his throat and he swore his heart stilled within his ribcage. For a moment, it felt the darkness was truly closing in. He shivered madly, feeling too cold to even shed tears. His feet were like stone and every movement he tried to make exerted him. It would not have mattered either. The darkness was unchanging, whether he moved or stood still and was as unyielding as it was all-enveloping.

In spite of this, he chose to walk. No matter how futile his mind told him it was and no matter how much his body protested. What else was he supposed to do? If he walked, his body moved and his mind raced. It allowed him to think, to forget. To simply remember all the good things he had experienced in life.

He thought about his evenings drinking with Gough and how he would tease him over being such a lightweight. Ornstein mentoring and guiding him. Ciaran training him and the many nights in each other’s arms. Playing with Sif and marveling at how fast the wolf cub grew. 

All of these memories, vivid and happy, temporarily made him forget. The cold and darkness would cease to be for a while and the silence of the void would be muted by the sounds from his recollection. He would simply close his eyes, putting one foot in front of the other. 

Hunger never overcame him and despite physical fatigue, he was never beseeched by the need to sleep. So he kept at it, step by step, walking through the darkness. Spurred on by determination and memories of better times, he ignored the nothing that surrounded him. He could go on forever like this, he determined. Go on forever with his memories to keep him company. That suited him just fine. That seemed far better than giving into despair.

So he walked for what seemed like miles, never going anywhere. He waded through a plane without sound or smell, without beginning or end. He was so wrapped up in shutting it all out, in ignoring his own loneliness, that he paid mind to nothing. Not even to the fact that his feet suddenly moved slower and a sound other than his own breath finally reached his ears.

An odd rustling sound caused him to snap his eyes open. He looked down in its direction. The noise was heard at his feet and he could only note with surprise that there was indeed something there.

Fallen leaves.

Raising his brows, Artorias bowed down and stared at it. Part of his mind refused to believe it was truly there. It had to be a hallucination, his mind finally crumbling from the infinite void. 

He tentatively reached out, only to jerk his hand back when the fingers were met with actual texture. He took a few moments to compose himself before touching a leaf again. It moved under his hand, making a little cracking sound as he pressed against it. It sounded like a dry, fallen leaf should and felt as dry as the ones that fell down the trees during autumn in Anor Londo.

It was real.

That thought jerked the knight into motion. He jumped up and as he started to look around, he realized the leaves on the ground were not the only change. It was still dark around him, but it was not the unnatural pitch black he had wandered through for days now. Instead, it was a natural dark, the kind of a place without windows. Indeed, he could detect the faint hints of light in the far distance, hinting at a place where the darkness no longer held sway.

His feet started to move again by themselves, heading towards that faint source of light. This time, it actually appeared that he was indeed moving forward. The light soon grew larger and he noticed how smell and sound slowly started to return to the world. He moved faster and faster until finally, he found the entrance of what looked like a large cave. He hurriedly stepped through, only to become frozen with awe once he did.

In front of him was a place unlike anything he had ever witnessed. A sky, more colorful than he had seen in Lordran straddled a seemingly endless forest. A bright moon, along with endless stars, cast its light over many trees and tall brown grass. Oddly shaped buildings and structures stood as tall shadows in the distance, obscured by the relative dark and the strange foliage. 

The atmosphere felt like nothing he had ever experienced in his homeland. There was a certain heaviness to it. The kind one would feel while a storm was brewing. There seemed to be blood in the air, somehow, even though the landscape still looked as calm as any other at night. A feeling of foreboding came over the Knight and he looked around cautiously.

Where was he? He knew his homeland like the back of his hand and this place did not resemble Lordran in any way. It was too different, too…unnatural compared to what he knew. Like he had ended up walking into an entirely different land through the Abyss. For a moment, he wondered if he was even in the same world…

He halted that thought as soon as it flitted through his head. No, it was ridiculous. He was dead, after all. He was quite certain he was. That meant he could not be in some other kind of world. Surely, he had merely reached some other part of this strange purgatory then. Some other part of eternity…possibly with its own trials.

He became very much on edge at that thought. It would certainly explain the danger that seemed to be in the air. His senses told him that staying around like this would be dangerous to him. He was highly visible and he did not come into this world with his weapons. If he planned to brave anything in this strange new place at all, he would have to find shelter first… 

“I smell weakness…”

A terrible voice, not at all human, slithered towards him on the wind. The chill that had briefly passed from his body upon entering this place returned in full. He turned in its direction, muscles tensed and hands balled to fists. 

Charging at him came one of the most horrendous beings he had ever laid eyes on. It was larger than he was and somewhat humanoid in appearance, but its skin was a sickly black and red. Horns and fangs protruded from its face at odd angles, but in its dark eyes shone malevolence. Its malformed mouth pulled back into a sneer and in the light of the moon, he could see it raise a gigantic broadsword above its head.

Artorias never hesitated. He easily leaped out of the way as the sword came down. The ground muffled its heavy clang and for a moment, the creature seemed surprised that he had missed. This gave the knight a few seconds to think and he quickly glanced at his opponent to see what he could surmise.

The being he was up against was strong, he could tell. The sword it was wielding was as long as he was tall and the being was at least twice as muscular. Its armor, however, the same colors as its hideous face, seemed far heavier than his. It was made to defend, not to move swiftly. It was there that he would have the advantage.

It wasn’t long before his opponent attacked again. Artorias leaped and ducked as the giant blade came at him from all possible directions. He stayed fast on his feet as he danced around his enemy, looking for the slightest opening. When he did, he would deal a jab to any weak spot he could find and it wasn’t long before the creature worked itself up into an even bigger frenzy.

“I honor my Lord by destroying you!”

Despite his dire situation, Artorias found it in him to smile. Let it get angry and bloodthirsty. That was the first thing Ciaran had taught him when he first became a knight. A frustrated opponent was a weak one and it would only be a matter of time before this thing would tire and get even more reckless. 

That prediction soon came true. The monster’s swings got slower and more erratic as it spouted more threats in that strange, unnatural voice of his. The knight made sure not to respond, merely grinning at the being to rile it up further. He was rewarded with angry bellowing as his opponent attempted yet another overheard swing and as the sword missed him once more, he closed in.

Moving faster than his enemy could, Artorias throttled him. His velocity caused both of them to hit the ground and as the creature took the brunt of it, it soon had the wind knocked out of its body. Wasting no time, the knight straddled him, before placing both his hands around the unprotected neck.

The being started to violently thrash the moment it felt the pressure on its windpipe. He dug his nails into his arms, causing deep bleeding gashes. Artorias, however, did not relent and as a last ditch resort, his enemy tried to reach for its sword. The knight acted quickly by twisting his hands. A sickening snap later, the body went motionless and he looked on without emotion as the creature's neck had bent into an unnatural angle. 

With the adrenaline currently rushing through his veins, it took him several moments to register that the threat was indeed gone. He took a deep breath before pulling his hands back, getting up while carefully watching the body. His eyes then trailed towards the heavy sword and knowing he would likely need a weapon of his own, he picked it up.

It was by no means a beautiful weapon, but it was well-crafted and the way it held reminded him of his own greatsword. Even better, it was so sharp it could split a hair. He breathed out as he shook the blood of it. To the victor, the spoils…

He placed the blade over his shoulder as he walked off, trying his best to put the fight out of his mind. His mind returned to finding a shelter. His thoughts briefly returned to the cave he had stepped out of, but some part of him felt like he could not go back there, irrationally afraid he would accidentally wander back into the void. No, he would have to find a good hiding place somewhere else. Preferably a place where few people would deign to look. 

He explored the area for while, quietly listening to his surroundings. The sound of rushing water then caught his attention. A waterfall, he guessed from the thunderous noise. An idea came over him and he turned towards it, making his way over as swiftly as he could. 

He soon found himself standing in a clearing. He was greeted by a lake turned silver under the moon, surrounded by a ring of ancient trees. At the heart of this site was the small waterfall and he approached it. Looking around one last time to see if he was not followed, he carefully started to wade into the water and covered his head as he passed underneath the waterfall. He climbed onto the rocks behind the cascading water and sat down, allowing his mind to rest. 

He figured he should be safe here, at least for a little while. This was a good thing. After an eternity of feeling no need to sleep, he found himself suddenly getting drowsy. This world was clearly not a safe place to be caught off guard, so his best option was to stay here and get some sleep, then try to investigate this world under the relative safety of the sun’s light. Provided this plane even had something akin to a dawn, at least…

Artorias decided to worry about it later. He leaned his head back against the rock and allowed his eyes to drift shut. Tomorrow was another day and danger was at least better than the endless dark.

Danger was indeed what he got. When the first rays of sun had woken him up, he’d set about exploring. He had quickly run afoul of a new kind of atrocity while doing so.

Several large, muscular men had appeared out of nowhere and tried to attack him. Using his newly found greatsword, he had fought back, but it turned out the creatures had a terrible trick up their sleeve. Suddenly, their limbs had started to elongate and fur and claws had started to appear on them until there was nothing left but oversized monstrous bear-like creatures.

The Abysswalker had panicked briefly as the sight of these unnatural creatures, but he had soon resumed the fight. Thankfully, he had been a lot quicker than the lumbering beasts and managed to dispatch all of them. For a moment, he had been proud of this achievement, but that hadn’t lasted long when he looked back at the corpses and found they had once again assumed a human form. Seeing them like this, maimed beyond recognition, had caused fear to take hold of the knight and he had wondered whether the creatures had truly been there or whether he had simply imagined it.

When he had finally pressed on, he soon found out that the strange things he was seeing were likely real. He came across many more hostile beings as he moved further away from his hiding place. Men armed to the teeth, more of the changeling bears, actual bears and ravenous wolves both as large as Sif had been. It appeared as if nearly anything in this realm tried to hunt him in one way or another. At first, it disturbed him. Then, as the day went on, it just irritated him.

As the sun set again over the strange sky, Artorias had stopped counting how many creatures he had slain. He was more surprised that he had somehow still found time to scavenge some food and obtain some hides to keep him warm and dry. By the end of the day, he had been more than fed up and he had simply retreated back to the waterfall. There, he had eaten his spoils and settled for the night, hoping to find some rest.

It was bloodcurdling howls that stirred the knight from his sleep hours later. The first thought in his drowsy mind was that it was wolves surely, but the longer the ungodly noise went on the more he started to doubt it. No kind of wolf he knew ever sounded so frighteningly…human. 

His concern grew even greater when he realized the howls were coming closer. It had to be more than one creature, he was certain of that, and even hiding behind the waterfall he was not certain he was beyond reach. Instinctively, he got up and picked up his sword. Somewhere, he hoped that the howling pack of beasts would simply pass him by, but his gut told him that it was always best to prepare for the worst.

Time seemed to go by agonizingly slow and the Abysswalker found himself not moving a muscle. His eyes shifted from the waterfall back to his greatsword. He quietly studied the red veins, seemingly pulsing like a heart, in the jet-black metal. What kind of being could possibly craft a weapon like this? It seemed like some kind of dark magic to him. Still, he found he could not wonder about it very long. All he truly cared about was whether it could protect him from whatever was wandering around outside the waterfall. 

Once more, the howling neared. He could hear footsteps by now. His fingers clutched around his sword, though he did not yet make any efforts to lift it. He simply waited, biding his time as to conserve energy. Even if the creatures outside had somehow caught on to his scent, it was best not to give away his position prematurely.

Then, there were shadows on the other side of the water. Large, looming shadows of giant creatures that did not seem quite wolf or man. Even over the rushing of the water, he could hear their growls and snarls. They approached rapidly and he could hear the splashing in the lake as they waded into it. His grip on his sword tightened. He would likely have to fight…

Suddenly, out of nowhere, the growling ceased. The beings on the other side stilled. They stepped aside and something else stepped forward from their midst. Whatever it was, it seemed the creatures feared it, as they scrambled out of the way rather hurriedly.

A large shadow was cast across the cascading water. It was a man, Artorias could tell. Yet it was not a normal man. Like the demon, he was at least as tall as him and his head did not seem to be human. It lacked the general shape and large horns seemed to grow out of his skull. Its inhumanity was clear to him and if anything, he reminded him of an unusually large Capra Demon. He mentally prepared himself to face this new foe, when suddenly, the “man” spoke.

“You there! I know you are hiding here! Show yourself!”

The Abysswalker did not respond nor made a move. He did not trust the being. He was hard-pressed to trust anyone he came across after the welcome he had received so far. So he stayed, still holding his new weapon at the ready, quietly staring down the shadow.

“You have been quite busy, mortal. You have been laying waste to my realm, killing many of my beasts and devout worshippers alike. The very least you can do is face the lord whose domain you have plundered.”

His haughty tone caused Artorias to growl, though his tone remained surprisingly calm as he replied. “I have killed thine creatures, for they would surely have killed me if I had not. If thou wisheth for contrition over this, then thou shalt have none.”

A short silence settled across the clearing and nothing was heard except water. He could see the shadows shift awkwardly. The Capra Demon remained frozen and the knight would have given a fortune to know what it was thinking, if it was indeed capable of such complex thought. 

“Show yourself. I wish to see a man who would speak to me in a way so peculiar yet without remorse.” 

The Abysswalker weighed his options. The sensible part of him was aware that walking up to a pack of monsters was tantamount to suicide. Yet he knew that he would also be trapped if he remained here and the creatures decided to enter his hideout. As appalled as he was by the idea of showing himself, it seemed open combat was the most viable option. 

Gathering his wits, he rose to his feet and waded out with his sword in hand. He fought to keep an even face as he came to meet the creatures waiting outside. They reminded him of the shapeshifting bear men he had met during the day, only somehow more revolting. These things resembled a terrible hybrid between wolves and humans and their teeth shone in the moonlight. They growled fiercely, their master’s hand the only thing that stayed them from tearing him apart then and there.

He walked up to the Capra Demon and regarded him in absolute silence. The being seemed to do the same. For the first time, Artorias swore there was a sense of apprehension about the creature. There was only a small hint of it, however, when he spoke. 

“You did not come here from Mundus. Your soul… It feels tainted by darkness. What is your name, slayer?”

In spite of his own caution, the knight replied. “Artorias. Artorias the Abysswalker.”

The Capra Demon smiled. “Yet now, it seems, you walk Oblivion. The Dreamsleeve must have a cruel sense of humor, if it somehow drew you in and spat you out at my Hunting Grounds.”

Artorias had not the faintest clue what the creature spoke of. The only word that truly lingered in his mind was “oblivion”. Was that the name of the place he was in? It certainly sounded like some cruel kind of purgatory. He did not dwell on that for too long, as the creature continued speaking.

“No matter. How you came here is of little importance. You are a valiant fighter and it has been a long time since I faced a worthy opponent. So fight, Artorias Oblivion-Walker. Accept this honor and face Hircine, the great Hunter himself!”

With those words, the being that called himself Hircine took a step back and raised his spear. The growling of the hounds started anew as they backed away and formed a circle. They pounded their hideous paws on the surface of the water, like the thundering of war drums. Their jaws snapped at the air, hungry for blood that was not yet there. Artorias could see the excitement in their eyes and he found that it angered him.

He was no one’s prey. No one’s puppet. He had already been that for far too long under Gwyn’s increasingly instable rule and when he fell under the corruption of the Abyss. That had caused him enough to wind up dead and fall into the void, only to end up here on these miserable “Hunting Grounds”. He had played a pawn in the game of lords before, but no more.

He turned his greatsword and slammed it into the water. It buried itself into the silt below it. He stepped away from the sword, his eyes not once leaving Hircine’s. 

“I refuse to fight thee. Give thy honor to a man more eager for it.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the growling of the monsters. Hircine lowered his spear somewhat and Artorias could sense surprise in him. Yet as quickly as that emotion flitted through his would-be opponent, it was gone again. A laugh came out of his mouth and the knight decided it was the most horrid laugh he had ever heard.

“Perhaps you need incentive. Allow me to provide that for you.”

He looked away from the clearing towards the woods. “A day or so ago, we found the most unusual creature here. A wolf, larger than those in Mundus and even those in my Realm. Strangely enough, however, it did not run from us. In fact, it seems quite tame. And it seems to carry a hint of the same thing that affects your soul…”

He stretched out his hand and even from where he stood, the Abysswalker could feel a strange kind of power emanating from it. A howl, chillingly familiar, sounded from the forest. Within moments, a large creature stepped into the clearing, its eyes reflecting the moon above.

Artorias barely even realized that he was gaping at the creature. Even though it had grown so much, he still effortlessly recognized it. How could he not? He would recognize his faithful companion anywhere.

“Sif!”

The wolf’s ears perked up upon hearing his name. He moved its head into the direction of his voice. Even from where he stood, Artorias could see his friend recognized him and he tried to rush over, tongue hanging out of his mouth. 

He didn’t get far, however. An invisible force held the wolf back. He clawed and fought, whining desperately, but whatever bonds held him would not relent. The knight could feel his heart break that very instant, only to be startled by Hircine’s laugh. 

“Ah, Sif. So that is what its name is. It is a fine creature. Unfortunately, it has become mine once it entered this realm. Perhaps I should make it one of my hounds. Or give it to my own hounds to hunt. Slaying such a beast would make for a fine tale indeed.”

Whatever anger Artorias had felt before suddenly boiled over. Without even looking, his hands found their way to his sword. In one swift motion, he yanked it out of the silt and pointed it towards his foe. He swore he could see Hircine’s unnatural face turn into a twisted smile. 

“Now, that is more like it.”

Then and there, he suddenly sped forward and Artorias dashed out of the way of his spear. He swung his sword at the demon’s head and he rapidly ducked to avoid his head being severed. The knight parried his spear as he charged again, then stepped flipped forward to bring his sword down like a hammer. Hircine stumbled, but quickly found his footing again for a next attack. 

Artorias hissed as the point of the spear suddenly caught his shoulder, but as Hircine tried to drive it through, he lashed out. A large bleeding cut formed all across the demon’s chest as he staggered back. The Abysswalker took this moment to tear out the spear and swiped at him, moving forward with the rage of a thousand men.

The fight seemed to last forever. Hircine proved a tough opponent, fast and strong and not afraid to play dirty. Steel clashed, blood was drawn and the wolves howled in excitement as he and his opponent tried to avoid each other blows. Neither of them was willing to back down, with Hircine fighting for sport and Artorias fighting for his life and Sif’s.

Saving his companion was what gave the Abysswalker his strength. Even when he felt tiredness, he kept charging forward and the stinging of his many wounds meant nothing to him. He failed Sif before, condemning him to being trapped in a protective barrier for who knew how long. Now he was here, the Gods knew how, and he decided then and there he was never going to fail his friend again.

Hircine seemed far less affected than he was, but he was not unscathed either. Several deep cuts adorned his body and he seemed far too enveloped in his own bloodlust to truly think ahead. Dodging the demon’s weapon started to become easier to him the longer the fight went on. He smiled. This was not the first time he had fought someone proficient with a spear. This was very much like training with Ornstein. And this creature was nowhere near as fast as Ornstein had been.

Hircine came at him once more and Artorias readied himself. As he thrust his spear forward, the Abysswalker took his chance. He lifted his sword up, but rather than trying to strike his foe, he brought it down on the spear instead. The weapon became trapped under the sword’s immense wait and the more its owner tugged at it to retrieve it, the more force the knight applied.

The snap of wood suddenly reached both their ears. For a brief moment, shock flashed across the demon’s face. Artorias could feel a wicked grin etch into his own features and faster than he had ever moved in his life, he descended onto his now unarmed opponent. 

The demon’s head bounced back at he hit it with the broad side of his sword. The knight then rapidly slashed at his feet, refusing to let him regain his balance as he stumbled. He then moved up close and bashed his head against his opponent, sending him tumbling into the shallow water. 

The Abysswalker walked to Hircine’s side and firmly placed a boot onto his chest, holding him under the water and refusing to let him scramble up for air. In this moment, he could not care less if killing this demon would incite the wrath of his hounds. He was still enraged enough to take on all of them and after threatening to kill Sif, he would gladly take their lives as well.

A bright purple light then blinded him and out of nowhere, Artorias could feel his boot touching nothing but silt. Realizing his opponent was no longer there, worry took hold of him. The fiend had escaped using magic! He jerked his head around, gripping his weapon looking for his enemy. The demon was trying to trick him, he was certain of it!

Then, in a burst of the same purple light, Hircine appeared again, mere inches in front of him. Not wasting a moment, the knight readied his sword for yet another attack. The fiend, however, did not move and, instead, bowed his head with what seemed like approval.

“Well done, hunter.”

The compliment, spoken with utmost sincerity, caught him off guard. He only barely kept himself from lowering his weapon, afraid that this was yet another ploy. The demon seemed to notice this and spread out his hands at his sides, as if to indicate he was not planning on anything.

“You have engaged me in combat and won. Now, I shall give you my favor.”

He turned towards the shore and raised his hand. Whatever was holding Sif dissipated and the wolf leaped towards Artorias. A sense of elation came over the knight as the animal’s face pressed against his. He held close to his loyal friend, for a moment forgetting that he was surrounded by foes. Even Hircine seemed somewhat moved by this scene, but his voice betrayed nothing as he spoke again.

“Take your wolf. You have earned its life. And now, my gift to you…”

Before Artorias truly realized it, the demon had approached. He reached out to his sword and ran his hand over the blade. Blood started to well up from the cut, before seemingly being consumed by the weapon. He then pressed his bloody hand against the wound on the knight’s shoulder. The Abysswalker hissed at the sudden pressure and the burning that the mixing of the blood caused.

Hircine leaned over, looking him directly in the eye. “My gift to you is the gift of beast blood. May it provide you with strength and courage on your Hunts, until we see each other again in these Hunting Grounds.”

The knight did not understand nor was he certain he wanted to. Was this demon intending to let him go? He had a hard time believing it. He should know better by now than to trust the supernatural. 

Suddenly, the purple energy returned. It surrounded both him and Sif, crawling up both their bodies. The wolf yelped and Artorias reached over to help them, but found himself nailed to the ground as the energy enveloped him. He fell to his knees, hands still outstretched to his companion to no avail.

Now certain he had been tricked, he looked over to Hircine with rage. His mouth opened to curse him, but nothing came out. The demon did not seem to be the least bit affected by his glares, simply smiling.

“One last thing. A year from now, you may wish to visit Falkreath Hold. That day, you will find a Hunt there unlike any other with prey sweeter than you can imagine.”

As the knight threw him one last wordless curse, he nodded. “Well met, Artorias Oblivion-Walker.”

By now, the energy had completely overtaken him and he could feel the sight flee from his eyes. He tried his best to fight it, to stay conscious and try to break free to help Sif. He fought as much as he could, but within a short time, an unknown force pulled him away and everything turned to black.

Cold.

That was the only thing Artorias could feel. Bitter cold, like the one caused by the bite of winter. He shivered uncontrollably, huddling into a ball for protection. 

He was back in the void. He had to be. The demon had sent him back to whence he came. When he would open his eyes, he would once again be greeted by endless darkness. Alone in blackness… He was not certain if he could bear that yet again…

Something then pressed against his face. Something warm and wet ran across his forehead and an object that felt like a hairy snout nudged him. Despite his best attempts to ignore it, he eventually felt compelled to open his eyes. They widened as soon as he did. Leaning over him, whining in concern, was Sif. 

"Ah, Sif. There you are.”

Without thinking, Artorias scrambled up and put his arms around the giant wolf’s head. He did not protest, holding still to accept his master’s affection. The knight was glad he didn’t. Right now, he was loath to let go, afraid that his companion would disappear once more.

After several moments, however, the reality of the situation hit the Abysswalker. He released his friend from his hold and shivered. He only now realized that he did not have any clothes on him and was standing on the edge of a snowy forest. He put his arms around himself, leaning against Sif for warmth, trying to make sense of this bizarre new situation.

This place felt different, he realized. Cold, but normal, the one you would expect in winter. The air felt clear and vibrant. The sounds of animals could be heard in the distance. It lacked the bleakness of the void or the bloody smell of Hircine’s realm. For lack of a better word, everything about this place felt…alive.

A deep confusion settled over him. Had it all been a dream, he wondered. Had there not been an endless darkness or inhuman Hunting Grounds? Had he even truly died in the Colosseum of Oolacile? Had it all been some kind of mad fever dream and had he simply wandered off only to end up here?

He wanted to believe that with all his heart, but something deep inside him told him it was not so. There was a strange urge in his veins now. A primal desire to hunt and fight and kill. He could hear and smell things much clearer than before, down to the heartbeat of the wolf beside him. Something in him had changed and for some reason, he found he did not fear it. 

He took a step forward, only to still when his feet hit something. He looked down in confusion. At his feet was a strange cuirass and a set of boots. It was made of chainmail and fur and looked extremely sturdy but light. The boots were made of leather and wolf fur, promising a welcome barrier between the snow and his feet. 

Figuring it was preferable over his current naked state, the Abysswalker reached out and grabbed the items, putting them on. He was relieved to see they fitted his large frame. Yet as he fastened the straps, he soon noticed it was not the only item lying in the snow. There was something else, an item he was startlingly familiar with. 

A greatsword, deep black with red veins.

For several long seconds, he stared at it. A flurry of thoughts swarmed through his head. It had been real. All of it. Both the void and the Hunting Grounds were planes he had passed through. He had truly fought some kind of demon to save Sif and had then been expelled from those worlds.

Indeed, Sif was here with him. So was the sword he had fought with. He himself was brimming with a strange kind of feral power he did not understand, but he was indeed alive again and, from what he could tell, in some kind of plane that felt alive.

The demon, this Hircine, had apparently kept his word. 

Artorias was not certain how to feel about this. Not that it was his main concern anyway. Here he was in the middle of a strange land that he did not know, with nothing to turn to. Finding his bearings, and potentially some food and shelter, were a greater concern than contemplating the motives of inhuman forces.

As he looked around his environment, petting Sif with one hand, he noticed something. He was standing at the edge of where a forest met a large open plain, one that looked equally hostile and frigid. Yet in the distance, there was also something else. 

Even from where he stood, Artorias could faintly make out a hill, surrounded by city walls and a large building on top of it. Whatever little he could see of the architecture was unknown to him and after the hostility of the Hunting Grounds, he was not sure what he might find there. Still, he couldn’t help but feel an irresistible pull towards it.

A sign of life. Not home at all, as something told him he would never see his home again, but a sign of life. And, quite possibly, a new start.

His decision was made. He picked up the greatsword and strapped it to his back. He then petted Sif, delighting in his companion’s presence and feeling immeasurable happiness at having him back at his side. He gave him one look, before doing the one thing he had been doing so far to not stay trapped in misery.

He walked.

“Let us go, Sif. Let us go and see what this place has in store for us.”

He smiled as the wolf happily followed them, united in this new adventure. He had walked through the Abyss and apparently through a place named Oblivion, when there was nothing but death surrounding him. Now that he was back in a place that seemed so alive, he was certain he could walk a little more.


	2. Under Kynareth's Wing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhea of Thorolund settles into a more fulfilling life, but some feelings linger.

“You can’t sleep, Rhea?”

The temple of Kynareth was quiet at this time of night and nothing was heard but the fitful sleep of those wounded and sick. The acolytes were asleep as well, exhausted by an entire day of learning and healing. Only the head priestess was up at this hour, holding vigil over the plagued in case aid was necessary. 

The kind, gentle voice of Danica Pure-Spring made Rhea look up. She smiled shyly as she turned away from the shrine of Kynareth. She nodded at her fellow priestess.

“Yes. I feel like I must pray to the Goddess tonight. For the healing of the souls in this temple and, perhaps, my own.”

The older woman smiled, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You are still longing for home, aren't you child?”

Rhea Earth-Born, how odd did that name still sound, nodded again. How could she not? She was in some faraway place, in province of Skyrim in the land of Tamriel, and it was likely that she would never see her home of Thorolund again. 

Sometimes, she would still dream about it. About her family, about her former friends Vince and Nico and all the happy memories she shared with these people. She would be overcome with sadness once she woke, knowing that these times were forever gone.

Yet there were also the nightmares. The day she found herself cursed with the Darksign, becoming Undead and being hauled away from her crying family, shipped off to find the Rite of Kindling. Watching how Vince and Nico went hollow as they were tricked and trapped in a pit. Waiting and praying at the Undead Parish Church, selling her healing miracles, before being dragged away by the Channelers, tortured and experimented upon. Breaking enough to lose her will to live and finally becoming hollow herself… Those nights, she simply awoke crying and found relief in the fact that she woke up here, in the sanctuary of Kynareth.

The debt she owed to the people of this temple was invaluable. They had been there for her when she had been frightened and lost. They had not shunned her when she had been next to useless. Instead, they had helped her without prejudice and shaped her into the woman she was now.

She could not remember what truly happened after she went hollow. All she had was the faint memory of rage and despair, of torment without end. At one point, she had faintly felt some kind of pain as she had angrily assaulted an Undead and then her world had gone black.

The first clear memory she had was waking up in this world. She had been dazed, her eyes felt heavy and she felt thirsty. It felt like she had simply woken up from a very deep, dreamless sleep. She had sat up and looked around, only to get the fright of her life.

She had quickly realized she was naked and lay in a patch of grass and moss, amidst the roots of a giant tree. Scrambling to cover herself, she had looked around and found she had been in a cave of sorts. It did not look like any place she knew and she could not recall how she got here.

She probably would have stayed there, confused and afraid, had there not been others there. Soon, a man had approached her. He had asked her, rather harshly, what she was doing here and how she dared defile this holy place with her drunken behavior. Rhea had not been able to answer him. If anything, his anger only made her more bewildered and upset. 

To the man’s credit, however, he had been rather perceptive. It took him but a few seconds to realize she could not possibly be inebriated and he had apologized for his rudeness. He had been quick to offer her some clothes to cover herself and then headed down with her to a small encampment in the large cave where he stayed with two other people. There, he had introduced himself as Maurice Jondrelle, a pilgrim, and as they ate together, he and the others had questioned her how she had ended up here, at the roots of a tree called the Eldergleam in what he called the Sanctuary of Kynareth. 

She had tried to answer them best she could, though it had not yielded much. She could only tell them about places they had clearly never heard of. They seemed to have no knowledge of the Darksign or hollowing and had certainly never encountered a religion named the Way of White. It was at that time she started to realize she was not anywhere near Lordran at all.

Now, she figured that any other people she may have encountered here would have surely proclaimed her mad. Thankfully, the pilgrims were not most people. Instead, they had decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and Maurice declared he would instead bring her to a city named Whiterun, which held a temple of his deity, and that the priestess there would likely know more than he did.

Maurice had stayed true to his word. The next day, he had set out to the city with her. It had been a strange journey, across large frozen plains with some of the oddest creatures she had ever seen. She had especially marveled at the giants and the strange hairy creatures they herded, “mammoths” as Maurice told her. The trip had been extremely cold and rather unpleasant, but they had made it to Whiterun without any mishaps. 

It was here that she first met Danica Pure-Spring. The woman had offered her shelter and listened to her story. She did not have any answers either, but did come up with a viable theory. She told her about a place called the Dreamsleeve, the realm all creatures touched upon while asleep. Her religion, that of the Eight, previously Nine Divines, believed any soul not yet worthy of the afterlife would go through here, only to be reborn. 

While reasonably logical, she had admitted this assumption did not fit entirely. Most souls, after all, would go to new vessels as babies, with no memory of their previous identity or life. Rhea’s case was unusual and Danica had believed the Divines themselves may have had a hand in it. Perhaps, she explained, Kynareth had found her lost soul somehow and taken pity on her, allowing her a second chance in her world.

It had not been the most grounded of theories. Rhea was thoroughly aware of that, but she also understood this was probably the closest to an explanation she would get. Instead, she had been more worried about being stranded in this new world. As such, she had been extremely relieved when the priestess told her she could stay at the temple for as long as she liked and that she would help her find her way.

Danica had done exactly that. Over the period of a year, she and her fellow healers Ahlam and Jenssen had done their best to help her settle in at Whiterun. She taught her about the culture and religion, the customs and traditions. She learned about the history of Tamriel and the current political events. The priestess even had her accompany her on errands in Whiterun and other cities, allowing her to become familiar with the land and the many people inhabiting it.

When she had not been busy learning, Rhea had helped her mentors at the temple. The building, she learned, was a place of healing. Every day, the sick and wounded would come in, hoping to be cured of both physical and mental ailments. As skilled as the healers were, the work was often hard and exhausting and as they already spent so much time looking after her, Rhea had been determined to return the favor. To these kind people looking after her and the Goddess that may have chosen to give her a second chance.

As such, she had soon started to diligently study restoration spells. As a cleric who previously specialized in healing miracles, she took to studying healing spells like a duck to water. Soon, she was quite capable of tending to minor sicknesses on her own and with every day of practice, her skills grew. In time, she even started to dabble in alchemy, crafting healing potions as well and some destruction magic to keep herself safe. It had felt wonderful to her to be so involved. A strange kind of redemption to finally be of use to people and be able to save lives, rather than being the one that had to be saved. 

As the months went by, she grew more confident in her abilities, more steadfast in her purpose. Life in Whiterun became more bearable with each life she helped saving and as the year went by, she found out she was not the only one who noticed the change. The people in the temple, and outside of it, noticed her dedication and skill as well. It had been the happiest day of her life when Danica had asked her if perhaps she considered not leaving. If perhaps, she was interested in staying at the temple of Kynareth as a healer and priestess.

By now, Rhea had adjusted relatively well to her new existence. While she still had many years to go before she could truly pass as a citizen of Skyrim or become a master healer, she had a home now. She had friends and held a meaningful position in the community. Unlike her life back in Thorolund, she was no longer a burden and she often felt she had gained a sense of purpose she would have never found at home. Still, that did not keep her from missing it every one in a while, including tonight.

Danica smiled, understanding as always. “It is alright to be sad, Rhea. It must be hard to be separated from everyone you love.”

The former cleric sighed and shook her head. For a moment, she wondered if she should tell her fellow priestess the sad truth of her existence back in Lordran. Still, she had known Danica for a while now and knew she could trust her.

“That is not what plagues me. I know it sounds awful, but I miss home, not any particular person. Most of the people I love have passed. Those who did not cast me away to be forgotten…”

She swallowed frantically as she said this. She did not want to cry. She may have in the past and blamed herself, but now, she could no longer. Why should she shed a tear for those who had not bothered to do so for her? Thankfully, her friend seemed to be understanding. She put her arms around her, smiling sadly.

“I am sorry to hear that. I cannot imagine that anyone would cast aside someone as gentle as you. Was there truly no one that cared for you? After that terrible curse befell you?”

Rhea stayed silent for a moment. Her friend’s question stirred something in her. A memory. One she had been trying to suppress every day. Because thinking of him was even sadder than thinking about the broken home she had lost.

She sniffed, her voice merely a whisper. “…Yes, there was one…”

That instant, she saw his face again and his name was on her lips. The undead man who had saved her in Lordran. He had rescued her when she had been trapped in the pit and brought her to the Undead Parish. Despite having his own mission, he came back to her whenever he could, not just buying her miracles but spending time with her as well.

She had come to love him. This man who shared her curse and placed value on her when no one else did. The feeling had been mutual too, much to her surprise. He was with her whenever he could and during the nights they spent together, they had often talked about what they would do if they could lift the curse. They had talked about starting a life together, maybe even away from Lordran. To go to some place far away from all this misery and be happy at last…

It pained her to think about him. The only person she had truly lost when she transcended to this place. She would never see him again, never be able to tell him that she was alright and content. It weighed heavily upon her and she could only hope that the briefness of the relationship softened the blow. That he had forgotten about her, broken his curse and was living a good life, wherever he was.

Only now did she feel the tears that were coming down her face. She sighed and wiped them off with the sleeve of her robe. Suddenly, she felt like the weak woman that had awoken at the Eldergleam again. She found she did not like it in the least.

Her fellow priestess simply smiled, holding her. “You should outside to the well in the Plains district to get yourself some water, then go to sleep. You are homesick and the lack of sleep is not making it better. We will talk about this again in the morning.”

All Rhea could do was nod quietly. Danica was right, of course. Her fatigue did not allow her to think clearly and it was making any grief she felt worse. She uttered a small word of thanks as she undid herself from her friend’s embrace and went outside the temple. 

Several guards were out on their nightly patrols and she greeted them as she made her way towards the well. She hooked a bucket onto the rope and let it down, quietly waiting for it to fill up with water. Once this was done, she pulled it back up again. She dipped the cup she brought with her into it and took a few sips. The cold water made her feel somewhat better and settled her down enough to finally feel some sleep. Satisfied with this, she was about to make her way back to the temple when she suddenly noticed a group of people approach her.

“Greetings, priestess.” 

Rhea could only barely contain a dark glare as she looked upon a threesome of Vigilants of Stendarr. She fought to hide any outward signs of disdain. As she had grown accustomed to this new plane of existence, she had gained the necessary respect for the religion of the Eight Divines. Yet the one Divine she could hardly muster any kind of reverence for was Stendarr. Or, at the very least, she could not bother to do so for his more militant followers.

Of course, she had heard of the Oblivion Crisis and the horrendous impact it brought to the land of Tamriel. Still, that did not mean she had to agree with all the ways the people of this land had reacted to it. When she had learned that this land had several kinds of undead as well, from the fearsome draugr and ghosts to blood-sucking vampires, she had felt uncomfortable, even angry when she learned about the Vigilants of Stendarr.

A former undead herself, she could not take kindly to any people who struck down undead as a way of pest control. Not everyone chose the undead state. Even if they were beyond saving and putting them out of their misery was the kindest thing to do, their souls should be treated with respect. Especially those still capable of reasoning, like vampires, should be judged on motives, as far as she was concerned. The Vigilants even seemed to regard all werewolves as a plague, never mind that the ones that seemed to linger around Whiterun had never harmed a soul and kept bandits at bay. If that was the will of the Divine of Mercy, then she wanted none of it. 

If Rhea truly had a choice, she would have told the Vigilants not to address her and leave her be. Yet she was a priestess of another Divine and she knew it would look bad on her and her temple if she showed them disdain. So she bowed her head and forced a smile.

“Greetings, Vigilants. What brings you to Whiterun?”

The one in charge, a middle-aged Redguard woman, answered her. “Business. We have received of a vampire infestation near Riverwood. We are merely spending the night here before continuing our journey.”

The former cleric cocked her head. “A vampire infestation? Do they not usually build their lairs further away from society?” 

Another member, a Dark Elf, coughed a little. “Well, it is only one vampire. It seems to be some kind of drifter, wandering from place to place, working odd jobs and feeding off any trouble makers in the depth of night. It seems it recently drove out a band of bandits and is now hiding out at Embershard Mine. Hopefully, it is still there when we arrive.”

The youngest, a Nord, just sighed before turning to her. “We will deal with that when we get there. Do you know any place where we can rest until dawn?”

Much to her own distaste, Rhea answered. “Yes. The Bannered Mare, just over there. They probably have some rooms available. Good luck on your journey.”

They nodded to her in gratitude, wished her a pleasant night and went on their way. She watched them go, but she could not help but feel uncomfortable at what they told her. Particularly concerning the details they shared about their prey.

She had acquired some knowledge about vampires and the behavior they described seemed…unusual, to say the least. Vampires were mostly group creatures, working in packs or covens. Lone wanderers were rare; especially vampires that limited their feeding to people who genuinely meant them harm rather than helpless prey. It did not much sound like a threat to her. More like a person who had the misfortune not to find a cure before they turned… 

Rhea leaned down, her hands resting on the edge of the well as she stared into its blackness. This was not really any of her business. She had her duties as a priestess of Kynareth and the Vigilants had theirs. She should not get herself, and her associates, in any trouble by interfering. 

Still, something about the situation made her unable to let it go. Knowing what she did, going back home to the temple seemed like an awful thing to do. She felt like she was potentially complicit in the murder of an innocent. And if this person was indeed a victim, could she live with that?

She could feel herself get sick at that thought. It brought her back to the old days. When she had been too weak and too fearful to affect anything. She loathed how she was back then and she knew she would hate herself even more if she would simply stand by now she truly had the ability to make a difference.

Then and there, a plan started forming in her mind. It was a dangerous plan, for certain, but not even all the Daedra in Oblivion were able to sway her from it. She quickly got dressed, managing a stunningly convincing lie to Danica that there was an injured traveler on the plains, and then headed out with a satchel filled with healing potions and, most importantly, septims earned by many hours of selling the results of her pursuit in alchemy. 

Once back outside, she hurried up the stairs to Dragonsreach. She was relieved to still be let in. She then quickly roused the Court Mage, Farengar Secret-Fire, from his sleep and made him a dubious offer, yet one he could not refuse. A thousand septims, in exchange for a filled black soul gem. 

Even in his drowsy state, the Court Mage gaped at her. He asked her if she truly knew what she was asking, especially as a priestess of Kynareth. She simply nodded, insisting it was needed for something very important and that she would carry the consequences. She continued to persist until he finally relented and, making sure that no one saw it, uncovered a filled black soul gem from a hidden cabinet. A dremora’s soul, he assured her, not that of a race from Mundus. He handed it to her in exchange for the money, imploring her to never ask him for such a thing again.

Now in possession of the desired object, she headed to the stables and rented a horse. Once firmly in the saddle, she spurred the animal on. It headed down the path as fast as it could and she mentally steeled herself as she quickly made her way to Riverwood.

The village was quiet when she arrived. She was thankful for this. Her priestess robes would have surely drawn the attention of a crowd. The only people outside were the village guards and in her sweetest voice, she asked them for directions to Embershard Mine. It took some coaxing, as the men’s first response was telling her not to go there due to the monster hiding there. Only when she lied that it was simply a waypoint to the Guardian Stones did they finally reveal the location and she thanked them kindly before riding off. 

Finding the mine was easy. Finding the courage to enter it, however, took a little longer. Again, she wondered if she truly wanted to go through with her plan. 

It was not the vampire itself that worried her. Being rather skilled in restoration magic, she knew plenty of spells to ward off undead. She even knew some destruction magic and she was aware vampires were weak to fire spells. In case the vampire was indeed aggressive, she could fend for herself. What worried her more was the possible consequences of anyone finding out.

She was rather shocked by how easy it had come to her to lie twice in the same evening. How she had not at all hesitated to spend an obscene amount of money on an item that was forbidden. A sense of guilt came over her for a moment. What if anyone started to question her and she let something slip? It could cost her the life she had worked so hard to build, the trust of her friends and the people in Whiterun. Was she truly willing to risk this and perhaps lose it all?

“Yes.”

She nearly jumped hearing her own voice. It sounded so loud in the nightly silence. Still, that one word was all she needed. She took a deep breath and moved forward, opening the door of the mine and going in.

An instinctual sense of caution entered her once inside. The mine was quiet and eerie, seemingly abandoned for a long time. A draft blew through the empty corridors and the only warmth came from the many torches on the walls. She quietly took one, readying a ward spell in her free hand. She forced a deep breath into her lungs, her chest aching at the cold air, before finally moving forward.

Every footstep seemed incredibly loud, echoing through the large underground structure. She winced in particular as she moved across the bridge, its creaks following her with the sound of dripping water. By now, the cold air was getting to her, hurting her skin and she held the torch a little closer to warm herself.

Soon, however, the chill she felt was no longer a result of the draft. This mine, it seemed, had claimed many victims well before the vampire supposedly settled here. She barely bit back a startled gasp at the occasional skeleton she found and muffled her screams upon finding the corpses of a bandit or two. Sometimes, she found dried blood or decaying body parts and she would have to turn away in order not to gag. Fear was becoming ever more prominent in her mind, but still she pressed on.

The deeper she descended, the more proof she found of an occupant that was alive and was in a disturbed state. She came across a makeshift arcane enchanter and alchemy lab. Amulets of all of the Nine Divines and some artifacts that were likely of Daedric origin. Circles and candles that were supposed to depict odd rituals were drawn on the floor and walls. All kinds of potions, even poison, were scattered everywhere and she swore she could see remnants of vomit. Her stomach twisted. How long had this person been in here, losing their mind?

It took her a long time to find her voice and even longer for her to speak out loud. “Hello? Hello, are you there?”

Her own echo was the only answer and she tried again. “I mean no harm. I merely came here to warn you. Please show yourself, so we can speak.”

Again, she was met with silence. It seemed even more oppressive than before now. It made her doubt for a moment. Perhaps the vampire had already left. Maybe he had already abandoned this lair long ago to move on to other settlements…

She quietly let out a sigh. Some part of her was annoyed that the hurried journey to this place was probably for nothing and she had wasted her gold on a forbidden item. On the other hand, however, it meant she was not in any danger and she had essentially not betrayed her duties as priestess. She could go home with a clean conscious and get rid of the black soul gem easily enough. No one would ever find out…

“Leave.”

A raspy, harsh male voice nearly had her jump. She quickly looked around, but all that greeted her was shadow and rock. Her self-preservation screamed at her to run, but she willed herself to stay where she was and respond.

“Please, let us talk. I come to you with a warning.”

A hollow laugh bounced off the walls. “A warning? Allow me to take a guess. I must leave, before you send the Companions, Dawnguard or the Vigilants to kill me? You tell me nothing new. I have no quarrel with you, so please leave me be. I have no intention to harm you or any citizens of Riverwood.”

Despite the bad state of his voice, Rhea could hear the sincerity behind it. It confirmed the first part of her theory. This lone vampire was likely not malevolent. The fact that he asked her to leave rather than tried to make her his next meal was also proof of that. This likely meant he could be reasoned with and that was exactly what she was planning to do.

“I am not here to threaten you. Someone already called upon the Vigilants. They are coming for you. They have already reached Whiterun and will likely be here tomorrow. It is not safe to stay here.”

The walls reverberated with a huff. “Are you trying to scare me then?”

She shook her head, becoming more insistent despite herself. “No, I am telling you this to save your life.”

Nothing was heard this time around. For several moments, she found herself alone with the creaking of the mineshafts. She renewed the ward spell, on the off chance that the vampire was indeed planning an attack. 

As the seconds crept by, however, nothing came out of the shadows to attack her. They simply danced along with the flames of the torches, their warmth hardly standing up against the draft. Here and there, she could hear the sand fall from the ceiling and she wondered just how much longer this mine would last.

“Why?”

She could hear her heart break when he asked her that. This creature really could not imagine that anyone would try to reach out to him. Why someone might take pity on it or feel empathy. It all felt too close to home. 

She spoke before she knew it. The sensible part of her told her it was rather foolish to share something this personal. That it was none of the vampire’s business and she could probably not change his mind with it. Even so, she wanted it off her chest, if only so he might understand.

“Because I was a hated Undead once, in a land far away from this place. Because I know what it is like to be hidden and forgotten, to be despised and prosecuted by those who see fit to end you for something that is not your fault. I was too weak to help myself or others back then. I do not want to make that mistake ever again. I can help you. Please… Please just let me.”

Then, there were footsteps. Something started to approach out of the darkness. She stepped back, holding her ward in front of her. She started to look around, trying to determine which direction to creature came from. She moved her torch around until she caught a human-shaped figure in the shadows.

She readied herself, not knowing what the vampire might do next. For all she knew, he truly wanted to be helped. Yet at the same time, she knew he could also view her confession as weakness. She was smarter than to risk that possibility. She had learned a thing or two about trusting the wrong people back in Lordran. 

“…Rhea?”

Time stood still the moment she heard her own name. She lowered her hand and the ward dissipated. She moved the torch towards the human shape and she nearly dropped it with a gasp once the light hit it.

“N-no…”

She blinked. Once, twice, over and over. Yet the face she saw would not go away. He was here and when she whispered his name in a trembling voice, his head perked up in recognition. He looked back at her with similar shock and disbelief could be heard in his voice.

“You are…not hollow. You are here… You are alive…”

He stepped closer to her and she could not help but feel saddened. The man she once loved so dearly now looked closer to a hollow than ever. His eyes had the red glow of a vampire. He had become thin and his hair had grown out, hanging limp and lifeless against his face. His skin was pale like that of the dead. He looked like he had been in this state for a long time.

In spite of this, she could still see the man she had come to love a lifetime ago. A sense of humanity was still there and his entire body language betrayed surprise and happiness at seeing her. Even the elongated fangs didn’t change his smile, which was as genuine and whole-hearted as she remembered it. 

She reached out to him with her now free hand. She winced at how bony his face felt and how pronounced the cheekbones seemed under that thin layer of skin. It made her wonder. What kind of ill fate had befallen him that he was undead in this world as well? 

It appeared he noticed what went through her head, as he let out a sigh. “I…am sorry we have to meet again like this…”

She simply smiled at him, dismissing his unnecessary apology. “How did you get here?”

He shook his head, indicating a sense of confusion on his part. “I died. Soon after a friend of mine linked the fire. Perhaps I went hollow, but I cannot say for sure. After what felt like eternity, I woke up at a strange shrine, in a supposedly haunted house in a city named Markath. Strange creatures were hiding in there and attacked me. I escaped, but with every day passing, the sun started to hurt and my need for blood increased. I do not know what happened, but I have been like this ever since that day…” 

Rhea listened and though she said nothing, she more or less had an idea of what had happened. Markath had been home to worshippers of the Daedric Prince Molag Bal, the Father of Vampires, in the past and rumor was it that there was still a shrine of him somewhere in the city. Some vampires must have happened on them and had infected him as he tried to make his escape. It seemed her lover had awoken in this world at the wrong place and wrong time, after suffering so much already…

She took his hand in hers, noticing the now almost claw-like fingers. “Come with me. Let us leave this miserable place.”

He stared at her, shocked and tried to pull back his hand. “I cannot. In this state, I might harm you or someone else. I could never live with that…”

She increased her grip on him, refusing to let go. “You do not have to. The undead state is not permanent in this world. I can help you. I know someone who can…”

“Hold it right there!”

The sudden sound of voices caught her off guard. She saw how her lover looked up and she turned around to follow his gaze. What she saw there made her petrify in fright. 

The Vigilants she saw back in Whiterun stood there, watching her with anger and disgust apparent on their faces. Some of them had already drawn their weapons. She could hear a small growl behind her and she instantly knew it came from the vampire. The Redguard saw it as her cue to speak and judgment was audible in every word.

“I knew you were planning on something when we saw you head to the stables at such a late hour! But I had never expected this! A priestess of Kynareth, consorting with a vampire! Never have I seen anything more shameful!”

The growling behind her became louder. She quickly looked up and saw how her lover was baring his teeth at the Vigilants. Their words only seemed to make him more aggressive. She knew an altercation would be inevitable if she did nothing.

She stepped away from him and towards the Vigilants. She could feel the sting of their words, but it hardly hurt her. She had spent a lifetime hearing how she was disappointing or worthless. She had never answered back then, only silently agreed. Now, no longer. She looked the oldest Vigilant straight in the face, cold and matter-of-fact in her words.

“Shameful? Is it shameful for a priestess of Kynareth to try and heal rather than exterminate the ill? That is what I am doing. Not every undead chooses their fate. Let me take care of those who did not, so you can focus on eliminating actual threats.”

Her answer, spoken without a trace of guilt, only seemed to anger the Redguard further. “You would mock our work? You would mock the righteous might of Stendarr?”

Rhea crossed her arms, not blinking once. “I would not, if your methods would not mock the very concept of mercy. I cannot let you kill those who can still be saved; that is not mercy in the eyes of any Divine. So, please go and let me handle this. I assure you this vampire will be seen to.” 

Right that moment, she did not feel any fear. Perhaps for the very first time in her life during a confrontation, she spoke and stood her ground. No words in any language could describe how good it felt. How strong she finally felt. So strong, in fact, that she did not shake when the Vigilants approached her with their weapons drawn and all she did was simply equip a destruction spell. 

“May Stendarr have mercy on you, for the Vigil has none to spare!”

She knew they meant it. That they would try to kill her to get to her lover. They could try, as far as she was concerned. She did not wish for this fight and had no designs to kill them, but she could still use her magic to slow them down and escape. She readied herself, determined to see her choice through to the end.

She readied a frost spell and cast a rune onto the ground, before throwing away her torch to equip a frost spell in both hands. Her enemies noticed the trap far too late and were temporarily staggered by the blast. She prepared to hit them with another blast of frost to slow them down, hoping to make a run for it afterwards.

Then, a spell suddenly lit up the visages of the Vigilants. Rhea jumped, quite certain that it was not one of her own. While it did not seem to hurt them, her three adversaries just stood there dazed, lowering their weapons and staring into nothingness. She regarded them with alarmed curiosity, only to suddenly feel her arm being grabbed and she was dragged along.

“Come on, before it wears off!”

She looked up to see her lover’s face. There was a sense of urgency to his expression and she did not protest as he pulled her past the stunned Vigilants and through the corridors. She ran as fast as her feet could carry her and she had never been so relieved when she realized he was heading towards the entrance and she once again found herself under a starry night sky. 

She didn’t protest as he urged her to climb onto the horse and he quickly joined her in the saddle. He then took the reins before urging the animal into a gallop. They rushed away from the mine, all the way through Riverwood and down the paths beyond.

It was only on the plains near Whiterun that he finally slowed down. He halted the horse, giving them a moment to rest and gather their wits. By now, Rhea’s heart was racing and it took her several moments to calm down and ask the question she was dreading. 

“What…did you do to them?”

He gave her a reassuring smile, clearly still out of sorts himself. “Nothing harmful. I simply rearranged their memory a little. They will not remember seeing either of us at the mines. One of the few good things about my affliction, I suppose...”

She could only manage a faint smile of relief at that. She leaned forward onto the horse, breathing in the chilly night air. She looked up at the moon, taking in the beauty of the night in Skyrim. She looked over her shoulder at her lover, seeing him stare at the distance.

“That is Whiterun, am I correct? I heard people talk about this city…” 

She smiled. “Yes, it is. It is quite a beautiful city. A great place to trade and to raise a family. I live there, as a priestess in the temple of Kynareth.”

He smiled back, staying quiet for a while before nodding. “You should go back. Your fellow priests must be very worried if you are still gone by morning. Besides, it would hurt you if we are seen together…”

With those words, he started to dismount from the horse. Realizing what he was planning on, she turned and grabbed hold of him. He froze, regarding her with surprise. She gave him a determined look.

“Wait… I told you being undead is not permanent here. I meant it. You saved me in the past. Let me save you this time…”

She pulled the black soul gem from her satchel and put it into his hands. “This is a filled black soul gem. Go out to Morthal northeast of here and seek out a mage named Falion. Give it to him. He will cure you of your affliction and you will be able to lead a normal life again, the one you were meant to. Come see me again then. I would hate to lose you again after finding you…”

Her lover stared at her and then at the soul gem. She could see a million things run through his head at the same time and she could only guess what he truly felt. After several moments, however, he smiled at her and leaned closer.

Rhea could feel herself grow warm all over at the kiss he gave her. It stirred a pleasant memory, one of the few dear memories she still held onto from her past. The fact that her lover was currently a creature of the night didn’t matter. It was good to know the feelings were still there, even under these strange circumstances.

He pulled back far too early to her taste, his expression serious. “May I ask one more favor? Aside from the invaluable one you have just done me?”

She nodded cautiously and he produced a small, wrapped up necklace from his pockets, his voice awkward. “I tried using this to cure my illness, but to no avail. Nonetheless, I heard this particular necklace has a special meaning in this land. When I am human once more… When I return from Morthal… Perhaps you may wear it then?”

She took the package from him, a smile on her face. “I will consider it.”

He returned the expression and finally dismounted the horse. He took her hand in his, a final temporary goodbye. He looked up at her, nodding.

“Have a safe ride, Rhea. We will see each other again soon.”

With those words, he let go of her hand and started to walk away. She watched him go with pain in her heart. Even if she knew this separation would not last forever, it was hard to see him go. This man, who had loved her when she felt worthless and whom she had just saved in return.

It took her several long moments before she finally found the strength to ride off towards Whiterun. It was a short ride, thankfully, and she could not believe her luck at actually finding a Khajiit caravan with sick members on the way there. Her alibi now valid, she returned back to the temple with a less heavy conscience. 

Once back at the temple, she gave Danica a quick report of her exploits. The older priestess had told her she had done well, not suspecting anything, and urged her to quickly go to bed. She had not protested and entered the blissful realm of sleep as soon as she laid her head on her pillow, but not before hiding the necklace her lover had given to her under it.

The next two weeks went by without incident. Rhea attended to her daily duties in the temple, healing and praying. She would occasionally raise some money by selling her potions and study new spells. She did her best to go about her day as normally as possibly, hoping to sway any suspicions and hoping desperately no Vigilants of Stendarr would show up.

Yet time passed and there were no fanatics kicking down the door of the temple. Danica, Ahlam or Jenssen never questioned her. It was only then that she finally dared to believe that no one even had a clue of her nighttime ride and the Vigilants who had followed her had indeed forgotten. Only now did she feel safe enough to look at the necklace given to her and in an quiet moment, she pulled it from underneath her pillow to inspect it.

She instantly recognized it as an amulet of sorts, dedicated to one of the Divines. Mara, she would say based on the kind of design. The Mother Goddess and Goddess of Love, she knew, but she wondered why it was this particular amulet that her lover sought to give her out of the many she found in the mine. A symbol of love or protection perhaps? She figured she would need to do more research.

“Are you having plans to marry?” 

Ahlam’s voice caused her to jump. She looked up in her direction, feeling almost caught. The woman’s face betrayed no anger, however, and she calmed herself before giving her a questioning look.

“What do you mean?”

Her fellow healer smiled. “Oh, you do not know. You are holding an amulet of Mara. In Skyrim, a man or woman wears one if they wish to marry. So, is there anyone you fancy?”

Rhea did not know what to say. She stared at Ahlam and then back at the amulet. Understanding hit her like a ton of bricks as she ran her fingers over the beautiful carvings on the pendant. A blush found its way to her cheeks and despite herself, a broad smile work its way to her lips.

“My, aren’t we popular today…”

Danica’s teasing shook her out of her reverie. She and Ahlam looked at their superior with questioning looks on their faces. Accolyte Jenssen, carrying some of the supplies he and his mentor had bought on the market, grinned.

“We talked to Hulda at the market. A man arrived at The Bannered Mare last night. Said he came here all the way from Morthal. He talked to her all night, saying he had traveled far and wide, but wanted to perhaps stay here with someone he held very dear. He asked about our temple and specifically after our little Rhea.”

Her three friends laughed together, joking about her so-called suitor, and Rhea was glad they could not see that she was beaming. Her heart was beating like she had run a mile and could feel a million butterflies flutter through her stomach. He was back, just like he had promised her, and this time, things would be different…

“Alright everyone, let’s get busy. I am certain many people will come visit the temple again today…”

Danica called everyone to order and like the others, Rhea obeyed. She still had chores to do and within perhaps an hour or so, the lover she had lost would return to the temple, waiting for an answer to the question he asked weeks ago. Without saying a word, she put on the amulet and slipped it under her clothes. She knew exactly what her answer would be.


	3. The Break of Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solaire of Astora gains a new lease on life...and new friends.

How long could a soul burn?

Solaire of Astora had long since stopped wondering this. The minutes, hours, days and perhaps even years had started to flow together the longer he was in the Kiln. Time itself became non-existent and pain, endless agony, became the only known sensation. His entire body burned, from his flesh until the very depths of his soul, set alight with the heat of the First Flame.

The Age of Fire had to continue. What had happened at Oolacile should not be repeated. The Age of Dark, of Man, could not be allowed to begin. Not yet. Not yet…

He had given up so much to achieve it. He had long lost his status as a god of war, but it truly taken courage to embrace the Darksign. To embrace Undead and mortality. A necessary sacrifice to find his own sun, to find some way to maintain this rapidly dying Age of Gods.

He did not do it for the Gods themselves, for the brethren that cast him out long ago, rendering a Nameless King for forseeing their doom and siding with the dragons to stop it. He cared not for the sacrifice of his father Gwyn or for the cowardice of his sister Gwynevere and the machinations of his sibling Gwyndolyn. No, the Gods had rightly left Anor Londo as their age was long past. His reason to sacrifice his life was for one person only. Someone the Gods had not even deemed fit to live.

The flame greedily devoured his tears as he thought of Priscilla. His niece, a being made by Seath of his sister Gwynevere's blood. The crossbreed, part dragon and part God. The Gods had feared her, enough to banish her to that rotten Painted World of Ariamis. He had visited her there many times, sneaking into Anor Londo to do so, and it had pained him to realize that it was the only place she could stay and be safe.

He could not help but weep thinking about her. The Age of Fire had to continue. For her. For if the Gods could already not abide what they did not understand, how could humanity? As foolish and treacherous as his kin thought him, he cared about his blood and he was more than willing to redeem himself for their sake.

That is why he burned. For Priscilla. For her safety and wellbeing. It she could live out her life in peace for another cycle, it was worth burning for an eternity. It was worth it, to be forever trapped in this kiln until he could burn no more.

So he remained, becoming numb and indifferent to the pain. He stared, resigned to seeing nothing but the flames dance all around him. It was his body, his soul, which fueled this fire and spread the light to the world outside.

In his mind, he smiled wryly. He was the one that brought light to this world now. He had finally found his sun; he had _become_ his own sun.

But for how long? Every now and then, when a veil of black obscured his sight, he could not help but wonder. Was it a herald of death perhaps? Were the pain and the madness finally taking their toll? Was he finally going hollow, now that his purpose had been fulfilled? 

That thought frightened him. If he were to hollow, then what would happen to the First Flame? How much longer would it burn if he lost his purpose? It made him want to fight sleep, even if it was his only reprieve from constant burning. Every second alive was one in which the Age of Fire would continue.

Yet the darkness returned, more frequent and insistent each day. Soon, he fought to even see the fire surrounding him and the dark stone walls of the Kiln seemed out of reach. Death was coming, whispering in his ear, and every second that he spent clinging to life was simply delaying the inevitable.

Still, it did not prevent him from being frightened when the dark finally became permanent. He had stumbled blindly, only feeling the searing of the flames. When his legs became too tired, his hands too painful to feel his way around, he finally knelt down amidst the raging inferno and quietly waited for the end to come. 

“Pitiful.”

The voice buried its way into Solaire’s skull. It shook him from catatonia and he looked around. He saw nothing but darkness, but just as he thought he had imagined it, he heard it again.

“You are pitiful. What kind of man with your potential would willingly resign to an undead state? What kind of fool would let his strength burn away forever?” 

The knight could not answer. He knew what to say, still standing by the reasons that had him choose his fate. Yet he could no longer have the words pass his lips, his very soul too tired from an eternity in a blaze. 

The voice spoke again. “Stand up. Walk. I refuse to let you go to waste!” 

Something inside him couldn’t ignore that commanding voice, much less defy it. Despite his previous inability to do so, he rose and found himself indeed able to move his feet. He moved, not caring about any particular direction. He put one foot in front of the other, not daring to stop for fear the voice would be back and judge him harshly, perhaps even worse, to make him march on again.

So that’s what he did. He moved onward, hoping that wherever he went was indeed the right way. He was so focused on pacing onwards that he barely noticed that the searing pain on his body was fading away. The sound of burning left his ears and his movements became quicker and less agonizing. 

All those things were hardly on Solaire’s mind. Instead, his eyes were directed at something in the distance. The blackness there was turning to a deep purple. An entrancing light shone from it, beckoning him to come closer. He did and once he passed through it, he could only look around in awe.

The place he was standing in was unlike anything he had ever seen. He was standing amidst a purple fog, its color vibrant but soothing. There was only limited surface and boulders and other items seemed suspended in the air, as if untouched by gravity. Above him was an endless starry sky, more alive and beautiful than he had ever seen in Lordran. He stood, no longer thinking of walking, as he watched the strange space with baited breath.

Suddenly, he was blinded by a bright light, manifesting in the middle of the area. It was more brilliant than any sun and he approached it enraptured. He reached out to touch it, only to find himself restrained. Suddenly, the voice boomed in his ears.

“You have made it here. I have stripped you of your profane curse during your penance walk. You step into my realm cleansed of corruption.”

Even in his paralyzed state, Solaire spoke, unable to comprehend this strangely compelling voice. “Who… Who are you?”

“I am Meridia, Daedric Prince of Life and Infinite Energies. I have brought you here to fulfill my will.”

“Why?”

The question was out before he could silence himself, but the voice remained benevolent despite its unyielding nature. “Because you have profaned yourself for a futile cause. I cannot allow you to remain as an Undead, forsaking a meaningful existence for a dying world. I cannot abide this and brought you here from the void to lead a purposeful existence.”

All the knight could do was listening in confusion. This…Meridia, sounded like a being of immense power, but he had never heard of her before. Additionally, she spoke of his quest to save Lordran as a lost one and seemed to imply he was no longer there anymore. It would indeed explain the lack of burns on his body, but while he was grateful not to feel pain, it frightened him as well.

Had his sacrifice actually been in vain? Would the cycle never end? Had his soul burned out, allowing it to be snatched away and drawn into this odd place? Most importantly, where was this place? Where was he now? He could not contain all these questions and spoke to the being once more.

“Here? Whatever would you mean with “here”? Where is this place?”

“You are in the Colored Rooms, my realm in Oblivion. But not for long. I will send you away from here. To the plane of Mundus, to live out a life more befitting of you.” 

Any confusion Solaire felt soon gave way to fear. Was this deity, or whatever it was, going to cast him into some kind of strange world? Away from everything and everyone he had fought for? No, she couldn’t! She could not possibly…

Meridia continued before he could speak, more uncompromising than before. “Go forth, former Undead. You will awake at the ruins of my Temple. Take what you need and be on your way. Go forth and spread my glory to the world of mortals.” 

The light became even brighter and soon enveloped him. For a second, he cringed, afraid to be burned yet again. However, all that happened was the strange world around him slowly fading away. The surface receded and all he saw, miles below him, were vast forests and mountain ranges covered in white. 

Out of nowhere, gravity pulled on him and he nearly screamed as he was certain he would plummet to his death. The fall never came, however, and he instead calmly floated towards the earth below. He landed without as much as a scratch, only to find himself beseeched by cold from all sides. 

Instantly, he noticed his own nudity and curled up in a ball to remain warm. He looked around, being greeted with nothing but trees and rock aside from the stone platform he was currently on. He grumbled, in spite of his shock.

“Well, looks like this being can pull my soul from death but can’t bother to provide me with a set of clothes…”

Even in his worried state, he then recalled Meridia’s words. She had told him to go into the temple and take what he needed. The thought of being out of the cold sounded marvelous and he quickly rose, hurrying his way down from the platform to the entrance of the temple.

Unfortunately, he soon found out the temple did not offer him much. While he was grateful to find a set of boots, bracers, weapons and a large amount of gold and other valuables, the ruins were woefully devoid of anything resembling clothing. All he found were old linen wraps and he did his best to craft something out of it to help maintain his modesty. 

Once he had achieved this, he took a deep sigh and went outside. The cold made his teeth chatter, but he knew staying at the ruins was a possible death sentence. So he marched on, following whatever path he could still see in the snow. He trudged onward, trying his best to keep warm, desperately hoping he would run into some form of life soon.

It seemed like he had walked for hours before he finally did. Several feet away, he could spot a camp and some figures walking around. Even from that distance, he saw that they were armed to the teeth and he wondered if he should risk going up to them. Still, losing limbs to frostbite did not seem tempting either and he decided it was at least worth a try. So, taking a deep breath, he gathered his wits and walked up to the encampment. 

It did not take long for him to be noticed. One of the soldiers got up from whatever he was doing and approached him. He looked him over, a displeased look on his face.

“Ysmir’s beard, you’re going to freeze to death!”

Solaire nodded, deciding to be bold. “Indeed. It seems I have lost my clothes in some unfortunate mishap. I don’t wish to impose but… Could I borrow some clothes from you? Or possibly buy them? I have money, if that’s what you need…”

The soldier gave him another look and his gaze betrayed puzzlement before nodding. “Talk to our Quartermaster over there. You can buy some off him.”

That was already more than the knight could have hoped for. He smiled and thanked the man, before walking in the direction he was pointed. The Quartermaster seemed to find him equally strange, but nonetheless accepted his gold and provided him with a nice set of light leather armor that, much to Solaire’s relief, was very affordable. As he took the precious items, he decided to make use of the situation best he could.

“Thank you for the clothes, but I’m afraid I’m kind of lost as well. Do you know of any settlement nearby where I can rest?”

Without looking up from his work, the Quartermaster nodded and pointed at the distance. “The city of Solitude is northeast of here. Keep walking and you can’t miss it. An inn named The Winking Skeever is directly on your left. If you plan to change into your gear, please do it in one of the tents. Nobody here wants to see that.”

The knight simply nodded and with a brief “thank you”, he did as he was told. Once he had strapped on his new garments, pleased to find the inside was warm fur, he bid his farewell to the camp and walked off in the direction he was pointed to. From the corner of his eyes, he could see how several people in the camp watched him go while shaking their heads, but he couldn’t care less. Having decent clothes and a weapon made him feel a lot better and he knew the feeling would increase once he reached a safe haven.

It turned out the directions they had given him were correct. After several hours of walking, he saw the large walls of a city in the distance. Relieved, he urged his sore feet to walk faster. The gates opened as soon as he came closer and he rushed through them, never having been happier to see civilization. 

As the people at the camp had said, he saw The Winking Skeever on his left. Relieved, he went up to the establishment and entered. His mouth watered as he was greeted by pleasant warmth and the smell of food and drink. He walked up to the counter and set himself on one of the stools there. The innkeeper, a man with reddish hair, smiled. 

“Welcome to The Winking Skeever, friend.”

Solaire gave him a nod, putting some gold on the counter. “Thank you. Do you have any food or drink?”

He got a smile. “Drink for the thirsty, food for the hungry.”

The knight had never been more appreciative when the innkeeper put a plate of food and what looked like some alcohol in front of him. He greedily started to stuff large chunks of it in his mouth, but while he recognized baked potatoes, cabbage and carrot, the meat remained a mystery to him. He turned to the innkeeper curiously.

“Excuse me, dear man, but may I ask what kind of meat this is?”

The man shrugged. “Horker loaf. Fresh from Dawnstar.”

Solaire could only gape at him, as none of those things rung a bell to him. “What is a horker? And what is Dawnstar for that matter?”

The innkeeper frowned. “They’re marine mammals that live in the colder waters of Skyrim. Dawnstar is one such place, in the northern part of the province.”

All the knight could do was nod quietly as he continued to eat. The strange meat was tasty enough and he did not want to seem half as foolish as he felt. Even so, the innkeeper kept looking at him, studying him.

“You are clearly not from here. What’s your name?”

Hesitating for a moment, the knight answered. “Solaire. Solaire of Astora.”

The innkeeper looked at him quizzically. “Are you a Breton?”

The clueless expression on his own face must have given him away. Once again, the conversation fell silent and he continued eating his food. Inwardly, Solaire desperately hoped some other clients would come in and the man would be distracted. Unfortunately, whatever powers ruled this world were not so kind.

“You must be a very long way from home then. Will you stay in Solitude long?”

The knight sighed, his hand automatically reaching to his pouch. “As long as I have money, it seems. After that, I’m afraid I must seek my fortune elsewhere, wherever that may be…”

He could practically feel a hand tighten around his throat as he said that. He knew he would not be able to get food and board without money. He was certainly not planning to overstay his welcome, but he had no idea how to even acquire any funds. He was in a foreign land, where the meat was strange and people had never heard of Astora. He was lost and in that moment, that realization weighed on him heavier than the burning of the First Flame. 

“You have nowhere to go, do you?”

The innkeeper’s accurate summary of his situation only made him feel worse. He nodded quietly, not even realizing that the man sounded more empathic than sarcastic. By now, he was simply picking at the remains of his food, suddenly no longer feeling hungry. It took him several minutes to notice that the man pushed his bottle towards him, urging him to drink.

“Look, you seem like a nice enough fellow. Staying at this inn costs you, yes. Ten septims per night, to be exact. But if you play your cards right, that’s easily affordable. If you wish to stay in Solitude, there are many small jobs you can do to earn some money. You can cut wood and sell it to inns and sawmills. Gather herbs to sell to the herbalist. You can also go to the docks and help load and unload the ships. Do any of these things and you can stay here for a long time.”

Solaire listened quietly to what the man said, barely keeping his jaw from hitting the counter in surprise. Was this innkeeper…actually being helpful? Was he trying to help out a complete stranger? He could barely believe it. 

Still, he decided not to question it. He would not have to leave this city once his money ran out. He could stay, make a living, even if it was by means of some of the most menial jobs. He couldn’t care less. All he felt right now was overflowing gratefulness and he could no longer contain himself. He drank down the bottle he ordered earlier, delighting in its delicious honey-like taste, and jumped up.

“Thank you for your advice and kindness, good man. I swear to you, it won’t go to waste. Praise the sun!”

The inn went quiet for a moment and everyone stared as he performed his gesture of worship. The attention was only brief, as people simply assumed he was inebriated, but it was enough for him to quickly sit down again in embarrassment. He quietly sipped the rest of his drink and put forth the money for a room, which the innkeeper happily accepted.

“Oh, you’re a worshipper of Auri-El?”

Again, Solaire gave him a dumbfounded expression. “Who?”

The next month flew by for the knight. The innkeeper, Corpulus Vinius as he learned his name was, was right. It was easy enough for him to earn money with small jobs. They were all far below his skill, but it mattered little to him. He was diligent and dedicated and by the end of the day, he would always have enough for a bed and three meals a day. He even managed to build a small reserve, which he would spend on clothes, spells and medicine, both for himself and other needy he met in the city.

Whatever spare time he had, he would spend at the inn or going about Solitude. He enjoyed talking to its people, from other humans to the Elves, Argonians and Khajiit, and learning about this strange land he had ended up in. He loved helping them with his limited financial needs, wanting to make sure they were not worse off than him. The citizens, in turn, were friendly and while they undoubtedly found him eccentric, they were more than willing to interact with him and answer his questions. As time went by, some would even seek out his company in the tavern and share some Honningbrew mead with him, a drink he was rapidly growing fond of, laughing and singing the night away. 

Of course, none of this relieved how homesick he would feel every once in a while. In fact, he doubted if he would ever stop feeling that way, even years from now. Even if Lordran was doomed to forever repeat the cycle and almost everyone he loved was long gone, it was still home. A home he would never see again as he was likely stuck in this strange place for the rest of his days. At those times, he simply consoled himself with an extra bottle of mead and the fact that at the very least, he was surviving here. 

Until that one morning.

He had been slumbering, determined to sleep in for once. He had done enough work in the last week to afford food and board for a long time. While he had no intention of being idle that day, he could now afford a little more rest and was eager to make use of it. Or, at the very least, he thought he could. 

Solaire found himself violently roused from his sleep by a thunderous noise. The room he slept in was shaking and the smell of smoke entered his nostrils. His first reaction was that that the inn was on fire. His instinct told him to get up and flee, but as a deafening roar shook the building once more, something told him it was something far worse…

He jerked up, jumping out of the bed and, like a true warrior, slipped into his armor and got his sword. He then raced down the stairs, looking around to see if Corpulus, Lisette the bard and any potential patrons were alright. Soon, he spied Corpulus cowering behind the counter, along with his son, daughter and Lisette, and several other people huddling together screaming. He rushed over to the innkeeper, shaking him to get him out of his daze.

“What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

Corpulus looked like he had seen a ghost. “Dragons! Dragons have descended on Solitude! It’s over! It’s all over!”

Solaire could feel his stomach turn. He had learned about dragons existing in this world a while ago. He had been told about Alduin the World-Eater and heard the horrifying tales of travelers. These were not like the dragons of his homeland, able to bond with other creatures; these were monsters whose very being was meant to cause destruction. Still, it all felt so far away, so unreal. To feel the building rumble with the hellish roars of the creatures outside and smell the sulfur even through the thick walls was a shocking reality to take in. 

He should stay put, the sensible part of him insisted. Leave this fight to those who belonged in this world. He was not some kind of chosen one sent to save this world; he did not even have his Sunlight Straight Sword to vanquish the darkness. He was but a drifter that wandered in, a jack-of-all-trades everyone tolerated quite fine, but never truly at home. A man banished here after failing to save Lordran and he should accept that failure. 

Still, as if driven by an unknown force, his hand found his way to his weapon. The old warrior’s blood within him boiled with excitement. It boiled within his veins, begging him to go out there. To aid others in combating a threat. It didn’t matter if he only had a steel sword and leather armor if he still had the will to fight. He was a former God of War and even here, still a Warrior of Sunlight. He had fought dragons before. He could do it again.

Then and there, he made up his mind. Determined, he paced towards the door. Behind him, he could hear Corpulus scream.

“Are you mad? Don’t go out there! You’ll die!”

Solaire briefly looked over his shoulder and to his own surprise, he smiled. “Oh, don’t you worry about me. I have been grossly incandescent with flame before…”

With those words, he went outside and found himself looking over a raging inferno of fire and ice. The sun was blotted out by giant, scaly wings. In the distance, he could hear the screams of soldiers as they tried to fight back in vain. The city was in chaos and just as images of Lordran flashed before his eyes, he found his heart stop as he saw three giant dragons fly overhead. 

Without thinking, he ran forward into the town square. He didn’t get far. One of the dragons swooped down and landed right in front of him. He stopped in his tracks, staring down a hideous head and large jaws with jagged teeth that opened in his direction. He could see a strange ball of energy in the back of the creature’s throat and instantly knew it planned to attack him.

He looked around and suddenly saw a discarded shield from a Solitude guard. Without hesitation, he dived towards it and hid behind it. Just as he did, a stream of ice was blasted his way. He could see its crystal shard form all across the ground around him and he swore he could hear the wood of the shield crack. He could hear the thunderous footsteps of the dragon as it came closer to him, but if the thing thought he would just sit here and let himself get eaten, it was wrong.

The moment the assault stopped, Solaire charged forward. The dragon’s head shot in his direction like a serpent, but before it could touch him, he bashed his shield against it. It broke on impact and he watched with satisfaction how it staggered the beast. With his free hand, he then treated it to a face full of a recently learned sparks spell. The creature made one final attempt to snap at him, but he quickly rolled out of the way and the dragon rose into the air once more.

The knight cursed. He hadn’t even been able to touch the thing with his sword. He certainly wouldn’t if it kept flying like that. His mind screamed. A bow! He needed a bow!

Without second thought, he raced up to Castle Dour. The blacksmith, Beirand, was long gone and in hiding, but he was relieved to find he had left his weapons during the flight. He grabbed hold of an Imperial bow he found and a set of iron arrows. He took a deep breath. He was by no means an archer, but he’d have to work with what he had. 

He aimed the weapon upwards, to the first dragon he saw flying by. He concentrated best he could, his arm not used to handling this kind of weapon. He prepared to release the arrow, but just as he did, another arrow sped towards it, hitting it in the side and sending it plummeting to the ground. 

Surprised, Solaire lowered his weapon and looked in the direction where the projectile came from. In the middle of the town square stood a person, also armed with a bow. Not someone from around Solitude, he knew. He had quite a good memory of who lived here. The person simply nodded at him as if to signal an attack, before swiftly putting away the bow and drawing a sword to charge at the dragon. 

Solaire got the message. Instantly, he leaped off the walkway and ran up to the downed dragon, his own weapon out. The thing saw him coming, but he couldn’t care less as he jumped out of the way of a blast of fire and started slashing at its wings. The creature fought back fiercely. It bit and spit fire at him, slammed its tail against the ground to make him stumble and even tried to hit him with his wings. Even so, it was no match for him and the other warrior and it flew away again when it refused to take any more abuse. 

Knocked back by the surge of air, the knight scrambled up. The other fighter did the same, though seemingly with much difficulty. Responding immediately, Solaire did his best to cast a simple healing spell and while he didn’t have much talent for it, the warrior was soon standing up again. He was rewarded with a grateful smile and a meaningful glance. He returned it, knowing exactly what the person meant. With dragons overrunning Solitude and the guards barely effective at stopping them, they were going to take this prey down together. 

Instantly, they both set their sights on a dragon that landed on one of the rooftops. The stranger rushed forward and out of nowhere, spoke in a powerful voice in an unknown language. A wave of energy burst forth from him, stunning the dragon in place. Solaire instantly hit it with lightening spells on both hands, while his new companion started firing arrows in rapid succession. The dragon jerked its head in the direction of the stranger for another shower of flames, but the knight was quick on his feet and threw a nearby shield at his comrade, before hitting the beast with a ball of lightning. 

Suddenly, the warrior spoke again in that inhuman language, uttering a three strange words that he couldn’t possibly comprehend. A wave of ice suddenly hit the dragon and just like that, it slid off the building and landed on the cobblestone below. Solaire had to leap out of the way as it landed with a deafening crash that shook the earth. As he got up, he could see the creature was dead, but he had no time to rejoice. He locked eyes with his fellow fighter. There were still two other dragons left. 

So they fought, amidst a barrage of frost and flames. They paid back in kind with steel and spells, dodging wings and teeth, as they forced their enemies out of the sky and into their attack range. The stranger practically sang the magical language now and he charged at every foe with unmatched ferocity. If one of them went down, the other reached out with a healing spell or potion and together, they drew dragon’s blood until it ran through the streets. With every wound, inflicted on him or the dragon, Solaire could feel his heart beating faster.

For the first time since he got here, he truly felt alive again. Oh, this was so much better than chopping wood, hauling crates or picking herbs. This was what he was meant to do. He was meant to fight, side by side with other warriors, to take down foes in jolly cooperation. The clashing of steel against scale was like music to his ears and he found himself smiling broadly. Perhaps, he had not needed to find a sun. Perhaps, a life of honorable combat was all he truly wanted. 

The last dragon came down on them in a blaze of frost and teeth. It landed in the courtyard of the Blue Palace and both them rushed over, hiding behind the pillars to avoid the incoming barrage. Running from shelter to shelter, Solaire pelted it with spells to keep it distracted, allowing his companion to go in for the kill. The warrior did not hesitate and snuck towards the dragon. Then, swifter than the beast could respond, a sword was plunged into its neck. It let out a horrific cry of pain but the stranger held fast, driving the weapon deeper and deeper into its scaled flesh.

Seeing his chance, Solaire sped forward and leaped on top of the dragon’s head. The being tried to frantically buck him off, but he held tight. Using his own sword, he proceeded to stab it in the eye. He repeated this action several more times, inflicting several large wounds on the creature’s head until it finally went limp and sunk onto the ground. 

The knight jumped off with ease, landing onto his feet before turning towards the giant corpse. The excitement was still running through his veins and only now did he realize he was panting heavily. He quickly turned to his companion in this venture, who seemed equally tired. In between heavy breaths, a broad grin came to both their faces, but just as Solaire wanted to speak, a sound drew his attention.

The dragon’s corpse suddenly started burning. An odd, faint heat came off it, rapidly consuming it. The scales started to flake off before disappearing into nothingness and within the blink of eye, there was nothing left but bones. Once the skin was gone, an ethereal force seemed to tear itself from the body and sped over to the stranger. It swirled around in lines of pure light, before burying itself into the armor and skin, painlessly seeping into the pores before the glow died down.

All the knight could do was stare speechlessly. He knew who the warrior was! What just happened, what he just witnessed… It was like the songs Lisette sang. Songs of a warrior without peer who would save Skyrim wielding the power of the dragons.

He bowed his head in respect, his voice barely a whisper. “Dragonborn…”

The warrior smiled, almost awkwardly. “It’s rather obvious, isn’t it? Still, you have my immense gratitude for the aid. May I ask for your name, valiant warrior?”

Shocked to find such a formidable figure speak to him in such way, the knight nearly tripped over his tongue. “Solaire.”

He noted himself how he consciously omitted “of Astora”. It didn’t seem right for him to use it anymore, somehow. The Dragonborn did not know anyway. The warrior gave him a small nod of respect.

“A pleasure to meet you, Solaire. You are a brave man and a competent warrior. Solitude is lucky to have you.” 

Solaire didn’t know what to say to this. He had never thought of himself that way. People here seemed fine enough with him being around, but he was not certain if his presence truly made much of a difference. Even so, the fact that this stranger seemed to think so, and appreciated him being there to help in the fight, felt good. Better than he could describe. 

The Dragonborn motioned to the dragon’s skeleton. “Let’s look over these piles of bones. They often have interesting loot and I do not mind sharing. After that… I don’t know about you, but I could go for a nice bottle of mead…”

Honestly, the knight felt truer words were never spoken. As Solitude came back to life once more and people left their shelters, he and his companion went about retrieving the loot from the dragon corpses. They divided the rewards, from scales and bones to coins and gems, among the two of them. Once this was done, they did their best to avoid the increasing crowds coming to see the skeletons and hurried to The Winking Skeever, ready to enjoy the spoils of battle.

Sharing some mead and a meal with the Dragonborn was a truly joyous occasion. The warrior was a kind person and a good conversationalist. They spent hours talking about their life as fighters and all the incredible enemies they had fought. They also discussed where they came from and how they were both strangers to Skyrim. It was comforting, he found, to talk to someone else who was far away from home too.

They talked and celebrated well into the late afternoon, when the Dragonborn was finally compelled to leave for business at the Blue Palace. Even so, the warrior emphasized being reluctant to leave and that the next time any dragon slaying or bandit fighting needed to be done around Haafingar Hold, Solaire would be the first the fighter would seek out. The knight had answered he liked that idea and that he would be glad to share battle and drink in the future. The departure was a truly fond one, so much so that once the Dragonborn left, Solaire was temporarily at a loss for what to do next. 

It took several moments of quietly sitting at the bar and making small talk with Corpulus before he got up. He paid for his meal and went up to his room to change clothes and get his woodcutter’s axe. He still had a few more hours of daylight and he figured he might as well use those to get some work done. He then went outside, his tool on his shoulder, and made his way to the chopping black near the inn.

He was so invested in his work, images of the glorious battle flashing before his eyes, that he barely noticed some of the hold guards approaching him. “Are you the one called “Solaire”?”

The knight looked up from his work. “I am. What can I help you with?”

One man of a seemingly high rank stepped forward. “My name is Captain Aldis. I saw you fight those dragons. You were very impressive.”

Solaire chuckled. “Why, thank you. I was simply trying to protect the city I live in.”

The captain snickered in response. “Well, I would hardly say you live here. I see you every day. You perform all kinds of odd jobs around the city to afford a bed at the inn.”

The knight quietly tried to assess the man as he said that. Was this man mocking him? Trying to run him in for vagrancy? He was not certain and decided to continue chopping wood.

“I too need to eat, my dear captain.”

Captain Aldis smiled. “I know, but I think you can do far better. The people here say you’re a man of upstanding moral character; you always try to help them even with your limited means. More importantly, you have shown yourself to be a capable warrior and Solitude can use strong protectors. Would you not be interested in joining the City Guard? It would earn you enough to move out of the inn and it would suit your skills far better…”

By now, Solaire could barely contain a laugh. “Captain, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were offering me a job.”

Captain Aldis’s face remained even. “I am, actually. So, are you interested?”

Mid-swing, the knight stopped and stared at the Captain in disbelief. He set his axe in the wood. For the first time since he got to Solitude, he was at a loss for words.

Everything that had previously been exchanged between him and the man danced before his eyes, as well as the words of the people of Solitude and the Dragonborn. They all called him a good man, someone they were willing to vouch for. Someone who did make a difference in this city, however small. A person whom people felt compelled to look upon kindly, enough so that they wanted to keep him here and give him a proper home. 

That thought was almost too much to take. He thought back to the words that strange being, Meridia, had said to him. She too told him he deserved better than to burn. She too said he had potential beyond what he employed. Maybe, he thought now, she was right. Perhaps he should pursue a life like this, using his strength to protect and help others, instead. 

He turned back to Aldis, nodding. “Yes, I would like that very much, Captain. Thank you.”

The Captain looked surprised for a moment, only to then see positively delighted. “Excellent. Be at Castle Dour at sunrise. We will show you the ropes and you can start. Be there.”

With those words, he and his men marched off. Solaire watched them go, before looking back at the chopped wood. He leaned on his axe, sighing at the materials he’d no longer need. 

“This morning, I woke up a laborer. This afternoon, I fought alongside the Dragonborn. Come evening, I’m a guard at Solitude. Such a strange turn of events indeed…”

He looked up at the sky. The sun was slowly going down over the city, casting the buildings in an ever-changing light of mixed oranges, reds and purples. It was a beautiful sight and he breathed in the impending night air. It felt good, he had to admit; standing here admiring the view. Solitude had grown on him and after a long time of merely surviving, he could now see himself truly belong here.

“Yes, I think I shall be quite content living out my days here…”

He smiled up at the sun, slowly turning red as it started to set in the west. Unlike the one in Anor Londo, it was real and its warmth comforting. The people of this strange land seemed to take it for granted and did not revere it, but that did not mean he shouldn’t as well. Making sure that no one saw him, he stood tall and assumed his stance, whispering softly. 

“Praise the sun…”


	4. Breath of Arkay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciaran comes to terms with love and loss, facing a ghost from her past.

A desperate gasp tore itself from a dry throat. 

The sound seemed to echo in the silence, met with only endless nothingness for an answer. It was raspy and desperate, like a drowning person fighting for air. It was the first breath of a person awakening from a long, dreamless sleep. The kind of sleep where one entering it is so tired and bereft that the slumber may well become eternal. 

At least, that was very much how Ciaran felt. She could feel exhaustion in every tiny part of her body. Her mouth felt dry and her senses were muted. Still, one thing she could not ignore and that was how terribly cold she felt. 

She sat up, her eyes swollen and her vision blurry. Her head was pounding, like after a night of heavy drinking or a fistfight ending badly. She reached out to touch her face with her hands, but the motion was enough to make her sick. She held still, fighting the urge to retch. She listened to her own feverish, trembling breathing and despite the insistent headache, she struggled to think.

Where was she? How did she get here? Why could she hear herself breathing? Especially since the last thing she remembered was…dying.

Years had she sat at Artorias’s grave. When he died, merely a shadow of himself thanks to the corruption of the Abyss, nothing mattered to her anymore. Not the Lord’s Blades. Not the designs of Lord Gwyn. Not what happened to Anor Londo or New Londo or Oolacile or any damn place on earth. All she wished for was to remain with the person who she had wanted to spend her life with, even if he was no longer there. Her lover who had walked into the Abyss but never came back.

Day after day, she had looked after the unmoving earth, watching and guarding. It wasn’t long before crying became too much of a burden and the eternal wake would have been unbearable had it not been for a friendly Undead. She never questioned how he obtained it, but when she sensed Artorias’s corrupted soul on him and asked for it, he had handed it over without protest. She had happily traded her weapons for it, as she had no need for them and never wished to return to her old life anyway. Her rank as leader of the Lord’s Blades, which she had worked so hard for, meant nothing anymore.

As such, she had simply sat at the grave from sunrise to sunset, clutching the soul of her lover to her chest. The sadness never passed. In fact, it only seemed to increase when the strength of the corrupted soul seemed to wane and seemed to become fainter as time progressed. It seemed to disappear bit by bit, as if it too was passing from this world.

The idea that she would lose the last thing she had of the man she loved was too much to bear. The will to stay alive and guard his grave left Ciaran. She stopped looking for food and drink to sustain herself and felt too burdened to sleep. With each day passing, she could feel strength passing from her. She couldn’t muster the strength to care. She was indifferent to death. Ceasing to exist could not be worse than this loneliness. The thought made her at ease and after countless years of suffering, she did not resist when she finally felt the cold hands of death and had closed her eyes without a worry.

So, where was she then? Had she truly died? Or had it all been some kind of strange dream brought on by how badly she took care of herself? Was she still dreaming perhaps? 

Once the searing pain in her skull subsided somewhat, she tried to stand up. She could feel her legs wobbling the moment she did. She gasped, suddenly realizing she was as naked as the day she was born. Immediately, she tried to cover herself, only to become aware of freshly dug earth under her feet. 

As she looked up, she could actually see she was surrounded by freshly dug earth on all sides. The smell forced its way into her nose, enough to make her nauseous again. Above her, she saw a starry sky and the moonlight, previously hidden by clouds, illuminated the area all around her. When it did, the blood in her veins turned to ice as she realized where she was.

She was standing in a deep open grave.

A feeling of panic rushed over her like a current. Why was she in a grave? Was she actually dead? If so, why was the grave open? Why did it still feel like she was breathing? Why was she not in a coffin and why was her heart racing? Was she still alive when she ended up in here? Was she being buried…alive? 

That horrific thought set her into motion. She had to get out. Survival instinct took over and she ran up to the side to climb out. The loose dirt, however, rendered her unable to grab onto anything and she slipped right back to the bottom of the hole. 

Even more frantic than before, she tried again. She leaped, in spite of her unstable legs. Her fingers clung to the edge this time and her feet tried to push off against the earthen wall. Most of it gave way, but she refused to let go, digging her nails into the soil above. Using all the strength she could muster, she pulled herself up inch by inch. 

The process was grueling. Soon, her entire naked body got covered in bruises, cuts and scrapes. The muscles in her arm were straining and for every little bit she moved forward, she seemed to slide back twice that distance. Still, the fear of being trapped inside that somber hole pushed her onward. She gritted her teeth, ignoring the dirt and pain as she finally managed to get both her arms over the edge. Her torso followed and she clawed at the grass to pull herself out entirely.

Ciaran lay back, panting heavily. She felt like she had fought off an entire army. Her entire being hurt, both from her wounds and the cold. Still, she was out of the grave and that was already a lot better than how she had felt previously. 

It took her an eternity before she found the strength to look at the trap she had just escaped. She almost felt like the grave stared back at her, the hole a gaping, hungry mouth eagerly waiting to devour a corpse. She shivered. Her eyes moved to the gravestone and even in the faint light, she could see the name on it was not hers. It contained an odd spelling and vowels, unlike any she had ever seen in Anor Londo. It was not meant to be her grave, she realized with some small measure of relief, but that still didn’t explain how she ended up in it. 

She looked around, worried that whoever had put her in there might still be around. The area around her, however, seemed completely quiet. All she saw was endless rows of gravestones, all neatly lined up and well-maintained. To her right, she could see what looked like the dark shapes of houses. That meant she was in some kind of town graveyard, but that still didn’t tell her where this town was.

Suddenly, a flood of light blinded her eyes. Covering her breasts with one arm, she used her other hand to shield her eyes. She could only barely make out two silhouettes, though she was quite certain one of them was armed. 

“Hello? Who’s there?”

For a moment, Ciaran for torn on what she should do. For all she knew, these could be the people who had thrown her in that hole and seeing her might compel them to finish the job. On the other side, she was naked, injured, unarmed and lost. She needed all the help she could get. Still, that brief second of indecisiveness for enough for her to get spotted. The two people approached her.

“You there! Stop! Who are you? What are you doing here?”

A torch was shone in her face as she did her best to maintain her modesty. It allowed her to look at the two men. One was obviously human. The other, with green skin, elongated features and odd pointy ears, seemed downright alien. That person, however, seemed a lot calmer than his companion and he looked her over worriedly.

“You’re injured. What happened to you?”

Trying her best to keep her dignity in this uncertain situation, she spoke. “I woke up in that grave over there. I don’t know how I got there.”

Both men fell silent as they shone their torches towards the grave. Ciaran waited quietly, realizing just how insane her explanation sounded. It wouldn’t surprise her if they thought she was drunk or lost her mind or even a combination of the two. Still, she knew she needed help and since these two didn’t seem hostile, they were her best bet. After a quiet that lasted far too long, they then looked at each other and the more human male spoke up. 

“You think the Dark Brotherhood got to her?”

The strange-looking man shook his head. “Perhaps. Kust, get some clothes. I’ll bring her over to the Dead Man’s Drink and get her a room there. We can figure this out in the morning.”

The human man, Kust apparently, nodded and went back to the building. The green-skinned man stayed with her. Relieved in the notion that these people seemingly planned to help her, she tried to process what was just said. These men talked about some kind of Brotherhood and the tone of their voices indicated they were dangerous. It made her wonder. Were those people, whoever they were, responsible for her ending up here? 

She didn’t get the time to ponder about it. Soon, Kust was back with some clothes to cover herself. Once she did, the green-skinned man, introducing himself as Runil, guided her to the town’s tavern. She ignored the strange looks the people inside gave her and was grateful when Runil got her a room and a meal. He told her he would be back in the morning and to get some rest until then. 

She happily took him up on that offer and retreated to the room, not willing to deal with the stares for now. Even so, she was glad when the barmaid came in with a meal and tried to make small talk. She introduced herself as Narri and as they talked, Ciaran did her best to try and learn about her surroundings.

She soon found out she was in a town named Falkreath, in the south of the province of Skyrim in the land of Tamriel. None of the names were ones she recognized, but the same went for her conversational partner. Lordran was an unfamiliar to the waitress and she had never heard of Lord Gwyn or his four Knights. She had managed to stay calm during the conversation, but inwardly the nagging feeling that she was immeasurably far from home grew even stronger. Even worse, she still had no idea how she got there.

In the end, she had dismissed the woman and put herself to bed. She was too confused to make sense of anything and she hoped sleep would do her good. If anything, she hoped she would simply awake and find herself next to Artorias’s grave again… She closed her eyes, falling asleep and dreaming of better days when her lover was still alive.

Alas, those dreams didn’t last nearly long enough. Come morning, she still found herself on the strange bed, trapped in an even stranger land. Runil had visited her early and questioned her. While she couldn’t tell him much more than she did the night before, he assured her that she would be safe here and that he got the Jarl’s permission for her to stay for a while. 

She had quietly accepted this information. She didn’t plan to stay for long anyway. All she wanted was to go home and the sooner she could do so, the better. She could practically feel the gazes of the inhabitants the moment she exited her room. She could sense looks of judgment, hostility and even fear. Not anything she wasn’t used to as an assassin of Lord Gwyn, yet since no one here knew her, it felt unsettling to say the least. 

The only person who seemed genuinely friendly with her was Narri. She gave her a place to sit, greeting her warmly and asking if she slept well. She chuckled slightly at the wry face Ciaran made. She then offered her a jug of milk and bread, assuring her not to worry about money. The former Lord’s Blade decided to take it and as it became clear the barmaid was the only one who didn’t seem to find her suspicious, she figured she might as well ask why everyone was looking at her funny.

Narri looked around, before sitting next to her and whispering. “They think you may have been a target of the Dark Brotherhood.”

The Dark Brotherhood. There it was again; that strange name. The same name the man who found her had talked about. Ciaran could practically see the shudder pass through the barmaid’s body as she said it. There was something about it and she felt compelled to ask further. 

“What is this…Dark Brotherhood? I have heard someone mention it before.”

Again, Narri looked around. “They are an organization of assassins who carry out contracts. They are highly feared throughout Tamriel and used to be based somewhere in Falkreath Hold. Word is it that they were destroyed, along with their leader, a while ago, but rumors of activity are still going around…”

Ciaran sucked in her breath and sighed. Just what she needed. She had ended up in some place with resident assassins… The barmaid looked at her, whispering in a worried tone.

“Do you think they attacked you? That they left you in that grave?”

Almost immediately, Ciaran shook her head. “No, I strongly doubt it.”

She wasn’t lying or even unsure. As a former expert assassin, it seemed unlikely that she had been a victim of an assassination attempt. The fact she was alive was a major indicator and she had not been injured when she woke up nor felt any side effects from poison. Yet what truly convinced was the fact she had woken up in an open grave, right near a settlement.

Having been Gwyn’s finest assassin, she knew the cleanest death was an invisible one or even better, making it seem like a complete accident. Being disposed off in an open grave in the middle of Falkreath was anything but inconspicuous and she would have thoroughly disciplined any of her apprentices had they attempted that. If an assassin had truly tried to kill her, then it had been an deplorably sloppy, botched job. Besides, she had bigger worries right now.

As the tavern was still relatively quiet at this time, Ciaran seized upon the opportunity to learn more about the town. Narri had been a willing guide and explained her some of Falkreath’s history. Apparently, the cemetery was what defined the town and many warriors from wars long past were buried there. Its presence was so ingrained in daily life that nearly all businesses were somehow related to death. Like the name of inn, Dead Man’s Drink, the Corpselight Farm, Grave Concoctions and the Deadwood Lumber Mill. 

While Ciaran could see the humor of it, she found it hard to laugh at that moment. The last clear memory she had was dying at her lover’s grave and it did not make her happy that she had somehow woken up in a town centered on death. Then and there, she wondered if it was some kind of cruel jest, devised by whatever deity controlled life and death in this place… 

That question had been pushed aside by the next day. While still confused, she had finally felt well enough to leave the inn and had set her mind on leaving the town as soon as she could. Where to she did not know yet, but hopefully some place that had people who knew where Lordran was. To do so, she knew she needed money for gear and supplies and she wanted pay off what she considered her debt to Runil, whom she had learned was a creature they called an Altmer in these parts. Still, whatever he was, he had been undeservedly kind to her by paying for her food and lodgings and she despised charity. She wanted to leave this strange town of death without owing it anything. 

Thankfully, there was a good way to do this. Narri had entrusted her with the knowledge that Zaria at Grave Concoctions paid fair prices for any herbs and mushrooms brought to her. Those kinds of fauna grew all around the town and if she was willing to venture out, she could find it in large quantities. 

The tip had paid off well. Armed with a basket and dagger she borrowed, she quickly stumbled upon large amounts of herbs in and around Falkreath. She even found some bird’s eggs and she had been more than a little delighted when it turned out Zaria indeed paid generously. The work was incredibly tedious, but she didn’t care in the slightest. She had the eyes of a hawk and it was easy enough once she knew what she was looking for. At this rate, she could pay Runil and afford some basic necessities within a relatively short time. 

The ability to leave this place pushed her forward and after two weeks of toiling around Falkreath Hold, she finally reached her goal. She managed to afford simple hide armor, as well as two iron daggers, a hunting bow with arrows and an iron sword, as well as some food, health potions and some money to spare for emergencies. She also managed to give Narri some payment for the borrowed items and managed to pay off her small debt to Runil. She immensely thanked both for their kindness towards her and explained that she was leaving, hopefully to find her way back home. 

Runil in particular had been sad to see her go. He told her he believed that Arkay had brought her to Falkreath for a reason and that this place had a way of offering a different perspective on life and death. Still, he said, she was free to leave if she wanted and he told her that if she wanted answers, a trading center like Whiterun was her best bet. He urged her to follow the paths and signs closely and to avoid traveling at night. Especially since there had been news of terrifying, shapeshifting creatures stalking the Hold when the moon rose. They had caused the death of an innocent girl in this town before and out there, she was potentially easy prey.

Ciaran assured him that she would be careful, though internally, she dismissed it immediately. Right now, she couldn’t care less about Arkay or Falkreath or any creatures. She just wanted to get home as swiftly as possible. Besides, she heavily doubted that this land yielded anything more terrible than she had seen during her time as a Lord’s Blade. 

With that, she finally left Falkreath, with nothing but her knapsack of supplies on her back, and made sure to keep walking. She had more than enough of its gloomy fogs and rainy weather and if anything, the talk of monsters made her even less willing to rest. So she kept going, even when the stars started to dot the sky and the moon was the only light she had. She only stopped whenever her legs got too tired or for any other business she couldn’t take care of while moving. Occasionally, she found corpses along the road, of which she dared not wonder how they died. She would loot their valuables as they did not need them anyway and after a quick prayer of apology, she would move on. To take her mind of the boredom, she spent a lot of her time thinking, even if the subject wasn’t always pleasant.

Runil had claimed she was sent here by Arkay, a god he worshipped that ruled over life and death. She had never heard of him before, but in light of recent circumstances, even her skeptical mind couldn’t help but wonder. Was the memory of her dying actually real? If so, had some god of death played a twisted joke, perhaps as punishment for her choosing to die before her time, and placed here in Falkreath? 

What was Falkreath anyway? The weather seemed so unnatural and death seemed ever present, like some kind of silent witness. Was this place even real? Did it even exist in the same way as her home in Anor Londo did? Or was this town merely a stop in an afterlife she had so far refused to believe in? Her purgatory, in which she was forced to stay alive while she would rather remain dead? 

That possibility made her uneasy and she pushed it as far away as she could. No, she wasn’t dead yet. She refused to believe it. She had simply ended up in some kind of backwater she had never heard of and she had to go to a bigger town to find her way to Lordran. All her answers would be in Whiterun, she told herself, and if she just kept going, she would be back at Artorias’s grave before she knew it. 

That thought kept her pushing on and the world around her simply became invisible. All she paid attention to were the paths and any signs on the way. Any other travelers were insignificant to her and on the third day into her hike, she no longer noticed it when she saw a group of people come in from the opposite direction until they spoke. 

“Well, ain’t this a surprise…”

Ciaran looked up from her thoughts and her face twisted in distaste. She knew bandits when she saw them. Not in the mood to deal with them, she held her head up high and sneered.

“Leave. I have nothing that is worth your life.”

The leader, a large male, simply gave her a smirk. It was clear he wasn’t taking her seriously. She could understand why. There were several of them and she was just one woman, all alone and away from any help. His response only drove this home.

“Tell you what. You start running so I can stab you in the back.”

From the corner of her eye, she could already see how a few of his comrades readied their weapons. There was going to be a fight, no matter what she did. She readied herself. She already crawled out of a grave. She wasn’t going to let lowlifes like these put her back in. She smiled wryly. It seemed she was still a Lord’s Blade after all…

She pulled out her daggers and flashed a grin. “How about this? If you want anything of mine, you can pry it off my cold, dead body…”

A challenge was clearly issued there. Soon, the bandit leader’s sleazy smile turned into a look of unbridled rage and she could see the flash of steel all around her. She no longer cared. These fools were going to learn the error of crossing a trained assassin.

Before the bandits could even act, Ciaran charged forward. Quick as lightening, she quickly sheathed her daggers and pulled the short sword from her belt instead. She dashed to the one on her right and struck. The blade cut clean through the woman’s neck and severed the head. Her comrades briefly stood frozen at her swift, sudden death and she used their temporary shock to descend upon the next. 

She leaped on top of the man, impaling his chest with the sword. She swiped a dagger of his belt and threw it at his comrade beside him. It hit him straight in the chest and she watched how he sank down to the dirt with gurgling sounds.

Finally, her assailants got over the shock and moved. A rain of swords and axes descended on her from all sides. She dodged and rolled as she swiftly switched to her daggers, stabbed and sliced. Swift as a hornet, she kept attacking, tiring her enemies and killing them one stroke at the time. She forced her herself to keep moving, keep slashing and not stop until every single one of this scum was dead.

A large, muscular woman set upon her with a war axe. Ciaran could see her reflection in the cold still as it missed her by a hair. She sidestepped it as quickly as she could and every time the weapon came down she leaped forward to deal damage. Occasionally, she was pushed back as the woman bashed her with the hilt of her weapon, but she kept charging in and staying close, killing her one cut at the time. Finally, the loss of blood caused her to fall to her knees and despite her pleas for mercy, the Lord’s Blade dispatched her with a stab to the head. 

This riled up the remaining bandits into a deeper bloodlust. The leader of the group charged at her screaming and suddenly, a wall of fire blinded her. She jumped, shaking her head to get rid of the singed hairs. She swore. It just had to be a pyromancer…

She jumped back, barely avoiding another blast. She knew getting close would be suicide and as she ran around her opponent, avoiding the fire, she decided to think outside of her skill set. Without thinking, she reached for the hunting bow on her back and fired an arrow. More through luck than skill, it hit the man into the abdomen. He roared and prepared to summon another spell, but without flinching, she fired again. The second arrow hit him right in the eye and within seconds, he was down on the ground, twitching and dying.

Adrenaline shot through her body and at that very moment, Ciaran did not feel desperate and lost at all. On the contrary, she felt more alive than she had felt ever since she woke up here. She was fighting and even here, in a strange land, she was thriving. As terrible as she felt, it made her smile a little. The Lord’s Blade had not yet lost her touch.

She turned her eyes to the two survivors, chuckling. She could read fear and uncertainty in their eyes. They had obviously not expected her to be an actual threat. Now, most of their comrades were dead and she could see them hesitate. Let them come. Despite being a fish out of water, she was angry enough to kill them anyway.

It was only then that she heard footsteps on her left. She noticed more figures racing out of the shadows, furious and armed to the teeth. Reinforcements, she realized with a tired sigh. Clearly, the death of their leader had made them even more combative and unlike her, they were still fresh and not worn down by battle. 

“You won’t leave here alive!”

For a moment, Ciaran sighed. Just what she needed; more bloodthirsty fools. Nonetheless, she straightened her back and faced her opponents. No matter how fed up she was, she didn’t want to go down easy. If they wanted her dead and take her things, they would have to earn it in blood.

It was only then she heard it. A sound. One that didn’t come from the bandits surrounding her. A sound that bounced up the many trees into a deep echo. A howl that sounded guttural and primal and was unlike anything she had heard before. It made her blood run cold.

With one look at her enemies, she could see that they had heard it too. They started to look around frantically and Ciaran could read the panic in their faces. Right then and there, she knew that they were aware of what it was. Not only that, but whatever it was, it was bad…

Instinct set in and she whipped around, running. She didn’t care she lost the knapsack as a bandit did an ill-fated attempt to grab her, somehow feeling belongings were the least of her worries right now. She rushed up to the nearest tall tree she could find and jumped, grabbing a branch and pulling herself up. She continued to climb as fast as she could, barely even considering the fact that the bandits had not pursued her. She had to get to safety and her warrior’s intuition told her that whatever was down there, whatever was coming towards her, might be beyond her skill.

She had barely reached the top when she suddenly realized that the howling became louder, followed by the pounding of rapidly moving feet, bestial snarls and the sound of shouting. Then, with a loud bang, the source of the noise burst into the clearing. The shouts only grew more insistent when the bandits below finally saw it and she heard weapons being drawn once more. 

“Kill it! Kill the monster!”

Ciaran didn’t move. She didn’t even think to look. Willing herself to catch her breath, she simply listened to the clashing of steel below. It seemed the bandits put up a valiant fight, but it was soon clear the “monster” below had the upper hand. Their shouts soon morphed into bloodcurdling screams as the growls and slamming of jaws grew louder. It was over before she fully realized it and it was only when the noise of dying turned back to a threatening silence did she dare to look again.

Beneath her, she saw nothing but corpses, all mutilated beyond recognition. Nearly all of them missed a limb and had large chunks bitten out of them. One only had the crushed remains of a head left. Still hovering above them was the culprit. An enormous being she had never seen before with thick coarse fur, large claws and a gigantic maw, smeared with blood.

She wasn’t sure what the creature was. It reminded her of a wolf, but it was much larger than even Sif, her lover’s pet wolf, had been. Yet, there was something different about it. Its movements were unlike those of a wolf, as it seemed to have no preference for two or four legs, and its torso and paws were not shaped correctly. In fact, the being seemed to be disturbingly…human. She swallowed. If this was the creature Runil had warned her about, he was probably right to do so.

She still didn’t move a muscle, her hands clutching tightly onto the branches. Part of her wanted to look away, but her eyes were locked on the wolf-man as he moved from corpse to corpse. She could hear flesh being ripped apart and even from her perch, she could smell blood. In the light of the moon, she could see how the creature had torn open the chest of one of the bandits and was now consuming his heart with vulgar sounds. She could hear it break the bones and tear apart the stringy meat with ease, hearing it slam down its jaws again and again with unbelievable force.

The bread she had consumed earlier threatened to escape back to her throat. She took deep breaths as quietly as she could, willing herself to calm down. She had seen worse, she tried to remind herself. That disgusting Executioner Smough ground his victims’ bones and put them in his food. At least this thing was a dumb animal and not a man…

Time seemed to pass by agonizingly slowly. She tried to tune out the sound of the creature eating and quietly started to plan ahead. The thing couldn’t possibly stay here forever. It would leave sooner or later, probably to look for new prey. She would only come down then, see if the now dead bandits had anything to salvage and then move as far as away in the opposite direction of the creature as possible. 

In the meantime, she kept her eyes on the being. By now, it had finished with the hearts of all the dead bodies. It then proceeded to look over the bloodbath. She could see it lick up the blood, only to suddenly halt at her knapsack and inspecting it thoroughly. Its movements suddenly became fast and jerky, curious, almost…excited. It unsettled Ciaran somehow. It only got worse when the creature then opened its mouth and let out bestial growl that almost seemed to contain a sentence.

She couldn’t make out any words in that noise. Not that she figured she would. That would make too much sense. Nothing in this wretched no-man’s-land did. She shook her head, forcing herself to stay focused while she continued to watch the monster intently, praying it would leave. 

Suddenly, the wolf-man jerked up and sniffed the air. Its ears rapidly moved back and forward and it started to move. Briefly, Ciaran felt relief, hoping she could soon leave her hiding place. The being, however, didn’t go away. Instead, it stuck around, continuously smelling the air and ground. It moved its head back and forward, its movements getting more determined and fluid and as it did, it started getting ever closer to the tree she was in.

Horrific realization came over her. She clung closer to the bark, trying her best to stay hidden. It smelled her… That…thing could smell her.

Just then, the wolf creature had reached the base of the tree. It stood motionless as it looked up and Ciaran remained equally still. She remained frozen when the creature balanced on his back legs and stood up, seemingly searching between the fir needles. It was tall enough to reach halfway up the tree and she could feel her heart stop for a moment when she heard its breathing a few feet below her. 

After what felt like an eternity, during which Ciaran was certain time was standing still, the thing finally leaned back. It pulled away, still staring upwards. Then it turned around and started to walk. 

The Lord’s Blade didn’t even realize she was holding her breath until she exhaled. Her muscles started to relax somewhat and she quietly let go off the bark. It looked like the wolf-thing was off her scent and was about to pursue other prey. She started to look around, ready to climb back down, get her stuff and get away. 

Then, out of nowhere, a large gray blur sped towards the tree. Before she could even fully comprehend it, it collided with the trunk. The impact nearly knocked Ciaran off her perch and the violent sound of wood splintering drilled into her ears as the tree started to topple. She only just managed to subdue a surprised shriek, but the muffled sound that escaped her throat was already enough. As her hand flew to her mouth, she suddenly found herself staring the creature in the eye. She swore it was practically grinning at her, before charging and hurling itself at the trunk again.

That instant, Ciaran knew she had to act. The tree couldn’t possibly withstand another impact. She had to get out. Get out of the tree before it fell and she was easy pickings for the creature below. Even so, that meant getting back on the ground anyway and if a band of bandits had not managed to take that creature down, she was not sure she could. 

Even so, she decided to risk it. Taking a deep breath, she readied herself, keeping an eye on the monster as it was about to hit the tree. When it did and gravity pulled the trunk towards the earth, she jumped. She landed on her feet, agile like a cat, and without missing a beat she started running. 

The being quickly caught on that she was no longer in the tree. Within seconds, she could feel the ground shake as it gave chase. Without even looking, she knew it was gaining on her rapidly. She kept moving and as she did, she quickly reached to her side to get her sword.

“Let us dance, beast.”

Just behind her, she sensed how the monster leaped. She skidded to a halt, sword in hand, and spun around. As the fiend descended down on her, she swiftly rolled to the side. The creature only missed her by an inch and without hesitation she thrust her sword into the being’s ribcage. 

The wolf-thing’s hellish scream nearly made her ears bleed. She braced herself as she tried to press the sword further into his body, intent on killing it quickly. The sword, however, wouldn’t move an inch and she cursed when she realized it was stuck. A swipe of its paw caused her to jump out of the way, abandoning the trapped weapon. She didn’t get time to think about her failure long. She instantly turned tail again and started putting distance between her and her enemy as it furiously pulled the sword out of its side. It wasn’t down yet, but then neither was she. 

Having put several feet between her and attacker, she reached for her hunting bow and put an arrow on the string. She was by no means a great archer, but hunting for her food had improved her skill considerably and right now, the target she was trying to hit was big enough. She released the arrow, before reaching into her quiver and firing many more. 

Still, the being was not nearly as incapacitated as she had hoped. Moving like the wind, he easily avoided the brunt of her barrage. Within seconds, he was closing the gap between them and Ciaran quickly put her bow away, getting her daggers. All she had right now to stay alive was her speed and she just hoped that it was enough. 

She rushed forward with both her daggers, ready to strike, and soon, both woman and beast were tangled in a dance of blades. She parried and dodged, hacking and slashing at the creature as it charged at her. Every once in a while, she managed to lay a hit on it but never one that dealt enough damage for it to slow down.

In her frantic state of mind, she only barely noticed that the fiend didn’t seem to make any effort to actually hurt her. It circled her and occasionally swiped or charged, but never at full force. If anything, it seemed bent on tiring her out rather than injuring her and something about the look on its face seemed to hint the bastard was enjoying this little game more than anything else. 

Ciaran cursed. She could feel the fatigue of the last couple of days bearing down on her now. She was panting and her feet were starting to feel like lead. She knew she could not keep this up forever and the creature was still not dead or neutralized. She knew running was no use. The being managed to perfectly keep up with her even when she hadn’t been this tired. Her only hope was to take it out here and now, before she was going to experience a serious handicap.

Mustering all her strength, she charged forward with a scream. The second she did, however, she realized it had been a mistake. The being easily sidestepped, almost lazily, before flanking her and pouncing. Her fall was broken by the soft grass, but it still knocked the wind out of her. Her weapons had slipped from her grasp and before she could even roll over and crawl to retrieve it, the beast was upon her, putting a large paw on her chest to keep her in place.

In a last-ditch effort to defend herself, Ciaran reached out and placed two hands on the creature’s maw to keep it away from her. Soon, they were covered in the blood of its victims and she had to fight to keep herself from retching. However, as she lay there, making her futile last attempt to prolong her life, she noticed something crucial.

The being was violently jerking its head in an effort to free it, but seemed distressed somehow. Especially when she increased the grip of her right hand, it tried to desperately pull back. It was then that she became aware of the ring she was wearing on that finger. She had looted it off a corpse a week ago and while she normally didn’t care for jewelry, it had reminded her of her beloved hornet ring. It had compelled her to keep it and now, she realized that was her best decision so far. Silver! This wolf-man was vulnerable to silver! 

That sudden revelation strengthened her. She had one final plan and it was now or never… Pulling one hand back and using all her might to keep the fiend away, she reached for the dagger still in her belt. She then shoved it into the wolf-creature’s arm. It growled as she pulled it back again, but it didn’t relent. In the brief moment it was distracted, however, she rapidly slipped the ring off her finger and without hesitation, she jammed it into the newly made open wound.

An ungodly wail came from the creature’s throat and it pulled back from her, clawing at its own arm. Once its weight was off her, Ciaran scrambled to her feet and rushed over to where her sword lay. This was it! The being was finally stunned! All she needed was to sever its head from its neck now and it would be gone. She snatched it off the ground and forced her aching muscles to run back to where the writhing wolf-thing was. Yet as she approached it, she noticed something was wrong.

The creature seemed to be going through some kind of terrible transformation. The bizarre, elongated limbs suddenly started to shrink. The claws faded. The coarse fur started to recede. The hideous maw started to force its way back into the skull. Within mere seconds, the beast seems to have disappeared entirely. All that was left now was a man. A naked, bloodied man.

Remaining cautious, Ciaran got closer. She clutched her sword tightly, quietly studying her target. The man was smaller than the wolf-creature had previously been, but not by much. In fact, he was still inhumanly tall, only a few feet shorter than the club-bearing Giants that sometimes roamed the forest. There was barely any fat on him, but his body was unusually lean and seemed to be comprised solely of muscle. He still seemed to be conscious, grunting and writhing in pain. She approached cautiously, but just as she was about to raise her sword, the moonlight provided a good look at his face. 

Instantly, her entire body froze over. Her breath halted in her throat and her heart stopped. Icy chills ran up and down her spine and had she been a slightly weaker woman, her knees would have buckled then and there. Her mouth, frozen in a soundless scream, was dry and it took all of her strength for it to say a name she’d never thought she’d utter again.

“A…Artorias…”

The creature looked in her direction. Its body still bore the wounds she had inflicted on it. Its black hair was messy and limp. Its mouth and chin were still smeared with blood, but its deep blue eyes shone with terrifying familiarity. Again, she felt like she was going to vomit, especially when it spoke in something half a growl and half a human voice. 

“Ciaran…”

On instinct, she took a step back. This wasn’t Artorias. It couldn’t possibly be. Her lover was dead. Corrupted by the Abyss, killed and forever gone! This had to be a trick! Some device by the cruel god of the afterlife to torment her. This was a nightmare, of that the Lord’s Blade was certain. This was all one giant nightmare…

In the time she had been petrified by terror, the being with Artorias’s visage got up. He stretched up to his full nine feet, seemingly not caring for his lack of clothes. Without taking his eyes off hers, he reached into his arm and with gritted teeth, he pulled out the bloodied ring. He then threw it aside.

“I am sorry I scared you. I did not… I never anticipated… I...cannot believe you are here. Please, do not be afraid.”

Hearing that voice, identical to her lover’s, the Lord’s Blade thought of fleeing for the very first time. This was more than she could take. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him! This was an apparition, a bad joke. She wanted nothing more than run away from this. 

“Ciaran, please heed me. It is me. You do not need to fear me.”

The being’s begging tone, so much like the voice she remembered, only made the desire to run greater. Still, the survivor in her knew she couldn’t. If this was indeed meant to torment her, it would not simply let her flee. It would follow her, wherever she went and whatever she did. Follow her until it would be the death of her. She gripped her sword tighter. No, she couldn’t run. She was too tired anyway. She needed to stay here and fight. End this apparition here and now. 

The doppelganger took note of her resolve. “Ciaran, it is me. Please stop.”

He walked towards her and she barely had time to roll out of the way and swing, which he easily avoided. What he truly wanted to do, she did not know. She simply eyed him, warily. The thing moved exactly like her deceased lover did and it put her on edge. 

She had fought Artorias many times in the past, in full armor and wielding that giant greatsword of his. She had won too, half of the time. Yet those times, she had daggers instead of this sword and she was not nearly as proficient with it. And Artorias, the real one, had not been able to take on the form of a bloodthirsty wolf-beast either. Still, despite having to force air into her lungs, she clutched both hands around her remaining weapon. She wasn’t going to be killed by her own nightmares. Not even when it imitated the concerned voice of her lover so perfectly.

“Ciaran, it is really me. You do not have to be scared. Cease this madness. Let me take you home.”

She sucked in another breath, finding her voice. “You are not him! Artorias is dead! You are but a poor, twisted imitation! And I will end you!”

For a moment, the creature seemed hurt and she briefly wanted to believe it was really him. Not that this sentiment lasted for very long. She noticed how he crouched, much in the way how Artorias would prepare an attack with his greatsword. The fact that he was completely naked did little to make him less intimidating. Somehow, Ciaran felt, it only seemed to make him more frightening. Like an ancient human wolf ready to pounce on his prey. That imagery had never unsettled her so much before. The odd mix of playfulness and sorrow in his voice did not make it better.

“You do not seem convinced. Very well. Then I will show you in actions, not words. Let us play…”

With those words, he leaped, fast and graceful, and the Lord’s Blade forced herself to evade rather than run. She was about to move in and slash at him, but aborted the moment he reached out to her with the speed of light. Realizing he actually tried to grab her weapon, she jumped back. Soon, she felt that was all she did.

She tried to dodge him best she could, desperately looking for an opening. A few times she nearly stumbled. Even so, she kept her eyes on the creature. He was watching her closely, eyes shining brightly. Despite the injuries she had inflicted earlier, he looked no worse for wear and seemed to almost enjoy the skirmish. She shivered. Was that how her lover was before he died, being corrupted by the Abyss? 

As she considered this, she picked up on another movement. She looked up in horror as the being approached, wiping off his face as he casually came closer. Knowing she had a limited frame in which to strike, Ciaran gripped her sword until her knuckles turned white and, trying to time it right, swung it at his heels, hoping to hamstring him.

The action was futile. He jumped and was upon her before she could even hit him. Within seconds, he had her pinned underneath him, easily enough thanks to his size and weight. He grabbed her sword and threw it out of her reach, holding down her wrists with only one hand. He looked down at her, still smirking. The resemblance to Artorias’s boyish smile was enough to terrify her all over again.

Finally, Ciaran allowed herself to feel sheer panic. “Get away from me! Stay away!”

She struggled with whatever remained of her strength, but she thoroughly knew it was useless. He could kill her easily now. All he needed to do was transform back into the wolf-thing and tear her apart. He’d probably eat her heart too, for good measure. 

The transformation didn’t come, however. Instead, he remained as he was, staring at her intently and reaching out with his free hand. She snarled at him. Of course, he wasn’t going to change back into a monster. That would not be enough fun for whatever sent him to torment her. That thought alone was enough for her to boil over with anger. Anger that swiftly turned to utter shock when she suddenly felt warm lips pressed against hers in what was a gentle but very insistent kiss. 

She stilled. Even though her mind screamed at her that this creature was probably trying to fool her with her deepest, darkest secrets, a feeling of doubt started to seep in. Could it be? Could it really be or was her mind finally breaking? She jerked her head, practically yelling.

“You’re not him! You cannot be him! Artorias is dead! He died years ago! I was at his grave till my last breath!”

It took her several moments to realize that the being said nothing back. He simply stared back at her, but not with a sly grin or any sense of amusement. Instead, he simply looked at her with immeasurable, sincere sadness. As if it had all been a game and he had not realized that it may have gone too far.

“You really think I am just a ghost…”

She wanted to scream those exact words back at him. He was a ghost, nothing more. A ghost from flesh and blood conjured by a cruel realm. A pawn in a game she was tired of playing and yet he refused to have it over with when she was beyond done. 

He didn’t kill her. He didn’t even make an attempt, even when there had been many times where he easily could. It had been like he never intended to hurt her and all that time, she had been certain he was simply waiting for the right moment to traumatize her. Yet those accusations never made it out of her mouth. Not when she full comprehended the tone of what he said.

Those words spoken in such a sad and dejected manner, flipped a switch inside of Ciaran. As steadfast as she had been in the conviction that this…man was a cruel trick of the gods, as certain she was now that he wasn’t. After all, a monster could not feel genuine sadness at its guise being rejected. No, these were not the words of a being that would torment her. That could only mean…

“Artorias…”

The recognition in her voice changed his entire expression. She could see him exhale in a relieved manner. Instantly, his hand let go of her wrists and he sat back with a smile, a gentle one this time.

“Hello, Ciaran.”

Almost immediately, something changed inside her upon hearing him say that. The terror that had taken hold of her moments ago rapidly ebbed away and was replaced with a plethora of other emotions. She sat upright, then looked him over as he sat there, quietly awaiting her reaction. 

He was alive! That realization hit her like an avalanche. He was right here, sitting there. She only had to reach out and touch him. He was breathing, his heart was beating… Her dear Artorias was alive…

But how? She had seen the body. No one could be brought back from the dead like this… No man she knew could take on the form of a wolf-man either. Her mind hurting, she decided to ask the most logical question that came to mind. 

“Are we both…deceased?”

Almost immediately, he shook his head. “I am quite certain we are not. I have been here for a while now and people die in this world same as ours. No, it rather seems that somehow, we have…transcended. Died in one plane of existence and came into being in the next…”

The Lord’s Blade mulled over these words. “Transcending”. So, she wasn’t dead. Not in this place, at least. She had simply “woken up” in another world. Not an afterlife, but simply another world with other rules and workings where death existed as well. It baffled her quite honestly and she couldn’t help but dumbly state the obvious aloud.

“Why?”

Artorias shook his head. “I do not know. I have been here for a while now and I still do not know for certain. But right now, it does not matter…”

She gasped when he reached out and pulled her towards him. He put her into his lap, not caring he was naked. She found it hard to care too, reveling at the feeling of having him close to her once more. He kissed her again and she didn’t protest.

“I am glad you are here, Ciaran. I missed you so much.”

For once, the Lord’s Blade did not want to argue. She was tired of arguing and of having to question everything in this strange world. Right now, she wanted some peace of mind. She wanted to feel her lover’s hands on her, hear his voice and taste his lips, for fear this was all a dream after all and might disappear again soon.

She froze for a moment when she felt a familiar hardness against her stomach and she noticed he was actively trying to undo the strings of her hide armor. She reached out and stopped him for a moment. She wasn’t sure how she felt about him having her by the side of a public road, mere feet away from some dead bandits. Artorias, however, had always had a knack for persuasion and this time wasn’t any different. 

Soon, she was naked under the moonlight as well. Despite the circumstances, it was surprisingly easy to get aroused and every touch and kiss increased her desire. She enjoyed his growls as she reached out to stroke him and ran her tongue across his chest and stomach, but it was soon clear he was not going to settle for just teasing. 

Ciaran moaned softly when he entered her. She could tell he had a hard time staying still and only smiled when he quietly confessed he hadn’t been with a woman since he came here. She was more than willing to make up for his faithfulness and started to rock her hips. Soon, Artorias put his hands on them and moved in rhythm with her, eager to have this little moment of passion.

It wasn’t long before she started to mewl at his thrusts. It was rather embarassing considering the circumstances and she told herself it was because of the many years of celibacy and the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. Still, it was hard to deny that her lover was still perfectly adept at pleasing her. His movements soon grew more forceful and he left no part of her unattended, making it exceptionally hard to remember they were making love somewhere anyone could stumble across them.

Clinging onto the last bit of her embarrassment, she tried her best to hold off an orgasm that was approaching far too quickly. Artorias, however, was having none of it. He had made no attempt to stay quiet himself and didn’t like the idea of her being that way either. Already very close to his own release, he pressed his hand in-between her legs and pulled out to the tip before roughly pushing back in. He repeated the motion before she could recover and her last attempt at modesty soon went out the window.

The wail that left her mouth as she climaxed must have been heard all the way in Falkreath. Her body shook as it was wracked with pleasure and she went limp, not entirely able to take the sensations she went without for so long. She continued to moan as he pushed inside her, releasing himself with loud groans. He held her close as he did and once he too reached his peak, he lazily pulled out and brought her up for a long, passionate kiss. 

Ciaran gladly answered his affection and laid her head against his chest, still panting heavily. All but spent, she could finally feel the fatigue of the last few weeks crashing down on her and right now, she felt pleasantly sore between her legs. She could feel Artorias run his hands over her back and playing with her long braid. While she definitely enjoyed his gentler attentions, she couldn’t help but feel he looked entirely too pleased with himself. She ran her fingers over his chest, managing a smirk.

“I will…make you…pay for this…” 

All she got was a small grin. “Well, you thrust a sword into my side, fired a few arrows into my chest and inserted a silver ring into my arm. I reckon we are even.”

She huffed at him, though she could not keep from smiling. She continued to lie against him for a little longer, knowing she needed a small rest before doing anything else. He obviously didn’t disagree, lying back in the grass while still holding her lovingly. When the outside air finally caused her to shiver, she sat up, though she loathed no longer feeling his hands on her. 

“Perhaps we should move somewhere warmer.”

He sat up as well, nodding. “We should. Riverwood is not far from here. Just let me get my armor and we can go there. We can stay at the inn there, get ourselves a nice meal and some sleep and then continue towards Whiterun in the morning.”

Surprised to hear the name of the city she was heading towards, she stared at him. “You know about Whiterun?”

He smiled. “I live there with Sif now. In a place named Jorrvaskr. I am a member of the Companions, a group of fighters for hire. I will introduce you to all of them.”

Her eyes lit up the moment he said Sif’s name. Of course, the pup had followed his master to this place as well… She’d be more than happy to see him again, but the rest of what he mentioned were things she had never heard of before. What’s more, after the surreal circumstances under which she had found her lover, she could not help but wonder about the most obvious. 

“Do they also turn into big, hairy wolf-like monsters when the moon is out?”

Artorias chuckled. “Some do, but not all of them. I am one of the few that kept my gift from Hircine. He is a Daedra, an amoral godlike being in this world. He is the father of Manbeasts and granted me this power for besting him in combat. He then sent me here. To Skyrim. And told me to come to Falkreath at exactly this day... I wonder…” 

Ciaran did her best to quietly take things in, but the flow of information was far too rapid to comprehend. Hircine. Daedra. Manbeasts. Skyrim. It all sounded like a bunch of nonsense to her in any other situation. Still, the fact that her dead lover was here with her in this forest made it likely that all these confusing things were true. She leaned back, sighing.

“I did not understand even one word of what you just said…”

He gave her an apologetic smile. “I know. But you will in time. We have all the time now that we never had back in Lordran...”

With those words, he gently lifted her off him. He helped her put on her clothes and retrieve her knapsack, before asking her to follow him to a nearby bridge. She watched how he pushed away a large pile of dirt. Soon, she saw armor and some gear appear and she helped him put it on. It was not the same armor she remembered him wearing. It lacked a plume on the helmet and its style was similar to the carved armors she had seen on travelers here, yet it still had the familiar blue cloth, wolf motief and silver sheen. She had to say she quite liked it. It was comforting to see him look so much like his old self. 

“That is quite the fancy armor you have, Artorias.”

He gave her a proud look, almost like a little child proud of a drawing. “Eorlund made it. He’s the most skilled blacksmith I ever met. Maybe he can make you a set resembling your old armor as well. Those rags suit you poorly.”

She could not exactly contradict him on that observation and said nothing as he retrieved a giant greatsword and strapped it to his back. She couldn’t help but notice how comfortable he seemed in this new attire. How relaxed and without urge to go anywhere. It brought back the one possibility she had tried to deny for so long and she could not help but ask it aloud.

“We will never be able to go back to Lordran, will we?”

Artorias did not answer immediately. He turned towards her with an unreadable expression, seemingly gauging what kind of answer she would find desirable. In the end, however, he simply seemed to choose honesty. 

“No. I do not think we can. I do not think Lordran even exists here. From what I understand, we are to remain in this world until death takes us once more. And yet, I cannot say I am mourning this.”

The thought of not being able to go home filled Ciaran with a flood of undetermined feelings. Everything she had worked for there and everything she had renounced was truly gone then. There was no going back, no way to ride back home with her lover and continue life as they knew it. She was not certain how she felt about that, but she was rather puzzled that Artorias did not seem to mind at all. 

“I am quite happy here. I am away from the machinations for Gwyn’s court, blessed with power that allows me to fight for my ideals beside valiant men and women. There is no Abyss here and I have seen where I go after I have breathed my last. I do not mind forever hunting with Hircine, together with those I love. I have peace with that. Especially if you are there with me…”

Those last words, spoken with tender reference, made her look up at him. Once again, she realized he was alive. Here, in this strange world, she didn’t understand, he was here with her in the flesh, not remembered by a few keepsakes kept at a makeshift grave. 

Then and there, she started to wonder if perhaps that should be enough. After all, how quick had she been to give up all the honor and accolades Lord Gwyn gave her when Artorias died? Had she not given up everything to sit at his grave? That would be all that was left for her in Lordran if she somehow got home. Honestly, that was not something she wished to return to if the alternative was starting over again with the lover she lost too soon.

That thought caused her to move her feet. No more grieving. No more dwelling on the past. It was time to move forward again, wherever that might lead. It didn’t matter, as long as she could be with him.

“Perhaps I can have peace with that too. Take me to Whiterun, dear Artorias. Take me home.”

The tall knight smiled as he held out his hand. She took it and started going down the path, under the light of the moon as it illuminated their journey to Riverwood. She didn’t look back once, leaving whatever grief she still felt by the roadside to abandon it for good. 

It was time to look to the future now. To starting over from scratch. To learn about this new plane of existence a strange god, Arkay perhaps, had seen fit to throw her in. To the life she could have with Artorias in this strange land. She was certain she could make the best of that.


	5. Lion of Akatosh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ornstein is forced to come to terms with his past choices as he adapts to a new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware that Dark Souls III outright states that the Nameless King is Gwyn's Firstborn, not the man we know as Solaire of Astora. However, there is a fan theory out there claiming that Solaire and the Nameless King are connected, perhaps even the same person. I myself quite like this theory (and will use it in my upcoming story "The Fall") and as such, I will maintain the idea of Solaire as the Firstborn in this fic.

What was dark if not the absence of light? That was the way of the world, ever since the gray landscape the dragons ruled over by reshaped by the Age of Fire. A world of constants, two extremes without anything in-between to balance the scales. Both ends were inescapable and one would never be the other. Just as black was the absence of white and death was the absence of life. 

Ornstein had never wondered about the afterlife. He did not see why he had to. He had always been a very practical man, more concerned with duty than religion. Besides, death was not something he feared. He was a fierce dragon slayer, a man whose ferocity had helped shape the Age of Fire, and he had gone through enough battles to gain a sense of invincibility. 

Yet now, as he sat here, mediating in an endless expanse of the blackest black, he knew he had been wrong. He was not invincible. Far from it. In fact, it may have been his utter conviction that caused his downfall. He used to tell himself once that the only thing he had time for was carrying out his duty. Here, he had nothing but time and all he could do was look back on the life he had led and wondering where he had gone wrong. 

To almost anyone, his life would have seemed accomplished. He had been a prestigious knight in Anor Londo, the most esteemed of those who served under Gwyn, the Lord of Sunlight. He had proven his mettle by slaying many dragons as he bravely led his men into battle. For his deeds, Gwyn had bestowed onto him a Lord’s Soul, elevating him as well as his fellow Knights above all others. He served his master faithfully by protecting him and especially his daughter Lady Gwynevere, earning their trust many times over. His life’s work was to exterminate dragons and ensure the rule of his Lord would last, whatever the cost.

As such, he did his part in fending off the darkness that encroached on the Age of Fire. When the First Flame was dying, he did everything in his power to prevent the end of a golden age. He slew all creatures that spawned from the Abyss, no matter how many more came back in its place. As always, he led his Dragonslayers into battle, but with every battle, he lost more men and every day, the number of Undead steadily kept rising.

He had not wanted to accept it when Lord Gwyn told him to finally retreat. He had not wanted to accept that Lordran was beyond saving. That he was not the person capable of saving it. Still, he had obeyed orders, as he always did, and quietly accepted his new task in Anor Londo. To simply protect Lady Gwynevere, even as the city slipped even further into twilight.

Even though his city seemed to crumble right in front of him, he never strayed from his duty to protect Gwynevere. He had known her since she was but a little girl and the very least he wanted to feel able to do was keep her safe. Even if it meant working side by side with the abominable executioner Smough to stave off the end a little longer. While he admired the man for his fighting prowess, he despised him for his cruelty and cannibalism, but in this time of need, he needed every ally he could get.

So dedicated had he been to his duty that he was blind to the fact that the dying flame could not be staved off. His world was collapsing, one stone at the time in an abyss of madness and entropy. He had not realized back then that corruption was already inside Anor Londo and before he knew it, he too had been caught up in charades. He had fought to the end against the inevitable, but the Undead kept coming and he finally fell to the blade of one of them, trying to protect what he now knew was the false image of a princess long gone. 

That should have been the end of him, but fate was not so kind. His Lord’s Soul, once so treasured, refused to let him die and eventually became twisted and corrupted by darkness. After his defeat, he had left Anor Londo in shame, in search of a man now known as the Nameless King, to beg forgiveness for the error he now saw so clearly. He wandered forever, far away from Lordran and searching in vain, suffering badly as his body grew old and brittle, more skeleton than man, but was kept alive by corruption. Eventually, he left his armor on the last known location of his master and wandered on, a hideous mockery of himself and his flesh turning into the very armor he'd once discarded. Whatever little remained of himself slowly wore away as the centuries passed. Finally, he simply hid in some cathedral in a foreign land and every day, he continued to lose his mind a little more. 

He could not remember his actual death. His mind had been too far gone, his old body reduced to a husk filled with corruption. When it finally came, he had barely felt a thing. All he remembered was a sudden calmness, like a large fog that suddenly dissipated from his mind.

Now, with that clarity, there came blackness. Silent, soothing blackness he had craved for so long. He had been surrounded by it for a while now, left with nothing but his thoughts and memories of his former life. It suited him fine. He was tired. Tired of fighting for nothing and of the time in which his body had been forced to keep going long past where his mind could. For the first time in centuries, he was at peace. So he simply sat, eyes closed, hoping this darkness would forever embrace him. 

He had been so caught up in meditation that he hardly noticed the wind brushing past his face all of a sudden. He rather welcomed it, as he did anything that didn’t disrupt his rest. It was only when the wind turned into sharp gusts and he heard the beating of heavy wings approach him. His eyes snapped open and as he looked in the direction of the sound, he found himself standing up and reaching for a spear that was no longer there. 

Landing in front of him was a dragon, one unlike any he had seen in his lifetime. It seemed comprised of strange energies, constantly in flux and radiating an overwhelming sense of warmth. It regarded him with unblinking eyes and he felt insignificantly small and vulnerable in his presence.

Had it come to judge him, he wondered. Was this being his executioner? He had killed so many of its kind in the past and he was certain he was in some kind of afterlife. Had his time in purgatory ended and was his torment about to start? All those thoughts went through his mind as he stared up at this creature, not knowing what to do.

Suddenly, it jaws opened and fire started to rain down on him. He could not avoid the bursts and screamed as they hungrily burrowed into his flesh. The pain defied description and somewhere inside of him, he could feel his Lord’s Soul shatter. He soon fell to his knees as the blaze continued to sear him, only to find himself horrified by what he saw. 

There was no blackened skin or melting flesh. Instead, his old, bony hands were eaten by flame, which then left new, smooth skin in its place. The corruption inside him was similarly devoured, the fire burning into the very depths of his immortal soul. It hurt more than he could possibly imagine and then and there, he wondered if it was perhaps his fate to burn forever. 

Yet then, just as he felt he could take no more, the fire was gone. The agony he had previously felt was soothed by the cold touch of water. Whatever relief he felt was soon gone again, however, as he opened his eyes and realized there was only water wherever he looked. 

The sudden lack of air had him flailing desperately. Not knowing which way was up or down, he had desperately tried to swim and after what seemed like an endless struggle, he had managed to reach the surface. He dragged himself to shore, panicked and gasping for breath, his head still spinning from the horrific experience. He only stilled once he felt firm earth under his body and as he clawed himself onto the shore, all he could think about was resting, if only for a while.

“Hey! Hey you, wake up!”

Ornstein could barely register the boot that jabbed into his side. He was still too weary to respond to anything and he could only vaguely hear the voices surrounding him. He didn’t care. He felt too sick to even move, let alone respond. 

“He’s completely out of it. Probably got drunk and tried to go for a swim. What an idiot.”

“That must have been a lot of mead. The man is huge. You think he’s a Half-Giant?”

“Must be. Either way, we should remove him before people start complaining. A night in the Blue Palace’s dungeons will sober him up.”

The knight could feel how hands started to tug at him. The sensation was wholly unpleasant and he tried to move in order to tell them to stop. It only seemed to agitate the beings surrounding him and he suddenly felt a kick to his head in response. He groaned in pain, but as their treatment was to get any rougher, a voice suddenly sounded. 

“What do you think you are doing?”

Instantly, Ornstein could feel how the creatures moved away from him, their tone changing. “Commander! We are removing this naked drunk to bring him to the dungeon. A concerned citizen reported him.”

“I understand, but there is no reason to use force if he’s not aggressive. Does anyone know who he is?”

“No, Commander. He looks a little bit like Steward Falk Firebeard with that red mane, but I doubt they are related. He’s probably a drifter, if anything.”

Ornstein could feel how someone stepped up and kneeled in front of him. He sensed how the person carefully pushed a hand under his head and lifted his chin up. Through heavy eyelids, he could barely make out a male figure in an oddly-shaped helmet. He didn’t respond, until the person spoke. 

“…Ornstein?”

The sound of his own name jerked the knight’s mind into motion. He forced his eyes to open further, trying to discern who was talking to him. The man quickly took off his helmet and even in his less than coherent state, he could feel his eyes widen. It couldn’t be…

One of the other voices responded. “You know this man, Commander Solaire?”

The man turned to the voice. “Why yes, I do. He’s an old friend. Please, get me something to cover him up. I’ll take it from here.” 

Soon, Ornstein could feel a tarp being laid across him. He could feel how the man tried to help him up. He was glad to find his feet and wrapped the tarp around himself, following the much smaller man as he guided him towards a nearby city. He felt how everyone was watching him with curiosity and suspicion and increased his pace, feeling immeasurable amounts of relief as he was led into a house, away from prying eyes. When offered a chair, he carefully sat down and only when he suddenly found a cup of spiced wine in front of him did he dare say the man’s name.

“Gwynnant…”

All he got was a shake of the head. “I am no longer the God of War here, Ornstein. I now go by Solaire. Solaire Chevalier in this place. After all, I _am_ a Breton as far as most people are concerned. Still, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Ornstein did not respond immediately. Frankly, he had not expected to ever come across Gwyn's Firstborn again. He had not agreed with Gwyn and the other Gods when they banished him for siding with the Dragons. Even if he was a fool and a traitor, who spat in the face of everything his father had provided for him and willingly sought out the enemy, he was still a friend. He taught him everything he knew and, unlike his master, urged him to always think and go into battle with a level head. As far as he was concerned, Gwyn's son should have been able to at least plead his case and not be wiped from history as if he had never existed. He had been strong in that conviction, but his loyalty prevented him from speaking up and voicing that concern. It was something he never stopped regtetting, right up to the moment where he was on the ground, bleeding while the now human God of War and another undead ally stood over him with their swords raised to strike the final blow.

Recalling his thoughts at the time, he didn’t know what to say now. Of course, he was happy to see his good friend once more, but he felt uncomfortable to be in the same room with him and reliant on his hospitality. This man, whom he had condemned along with everyone else in Anor Londo, simply by doing nothing when he needed defending the most. He did not deserve any kindness on his part. 

He tried his best to push that feeling of guilt away and decided to ask the primary thing on his mind. “Where am I?”

Solaire, as he now called himself, smiled. “In my humble home of Proudspire Manor, in the city of Solitude. It’s the capitol of Skyrim, which is a province of a land called Tamriel. We are a long way from what we used to call home, Ornstein.”

Ornstein listened in silence. He was well acquainted with Lordran and the surrounding countries, but he had never even heard of the places Solaire mentioned. What puzzled him even more was how he got here.

“There was darkness. Endless black wherever I could see. It was so quiet there, so peaceful… Then there was a dragon. I have never seen anything like it. It engulfed me in flames, down to my soul, and then… Then there was water…”

He didn’t even realize he was saying these things out loud. He quietly trailed off once he did and as Solaire stared at him, he quickly reached out to the spiced wine and started drinking. He thought him insane, he was certain of it. By the Gods, just hearing himself speak convinced him he might be insane. Who on earth would believe such a ridiculous tale?

“Ah, so you transcended to this world as well.”

Ornstein stopped drinking. He lowered the cup to his chest and stared at him. He couldn’t help but notice the matter of fact way in which Solaire responded. Almost like he didn’t find the things he said strange at all…

He wanted to speak, but was interrupted by the sound of a door opening. On instinct, he wrapped the tarp closer around him and looked over his shoulder. A young blond woman dressed in armor entered the house, carrying what looked like a bundle of clothes. She walked up to Solaire.

“I got the items you asked for, my Thane. I will let you know Endarie drove a hard bargain. Let’s hope these fit your guest. I don’t feel like going back there again.”

He smiled at her. “Excellent. I’m so sorry I had to send you for this. I know you have more important things to do than haggle with sour seamstresses.”

She chuckled. “I’ll forgive you if you introduce me to your guest.”

He got up and took the materials from her, seemingly embarrassed. “Oh, of course, how rude of me! Jordis, this is Ornstein. He is an old friend of mine. Ornstein, this lovely Sword Maiden, my wife in all ways but table and bed, is Jordis.”

The woman rolled her eyes with a laugh. “I’m just his housecarl. Honored to meet you, Ornstein.”

All the knight could manage in his state was a polite nod and he looked on in surprise as Solaire held out the clothes to him. “Why don’t you go get dressed upstairs? I’ll make you some food and explain to you what I know.”

Now feeling more ill at ease than before, Ornstein was quick to do what he was asked. Doing his best to take hold of the clothes and keep the tarp from sliding off, he rushed upstairs. There, he quickly slipped into the clothes provided for him and was relieved to see that they more or less accommodated him. It made him feel a little less vulnerable and it was a straightened back and renewed dignity that he returned to the living area of the manor. True to his word, he and Jordis had laid out a meal fit for a king. Ornstein didn’t realize how hungry he was until he started eating and as he did, Solaire proceeded to inform him. 

While he admitted he was not entirely certain, the smaller man was of the opinion that he was summoned here by a being named Akatosh. He was the deity of Time in this realm, often depicted as a dragon, and his shrine was in a temple in this city. Therefore, it seemed likely that this being had transcended him to his place. 

Ornstein listened as he ate, not sure what to think of it. He had always been a rather logical man by default. If Solaire had told him a story like this at any other time, he would have surely dismissed it. It sounded like the tale of a religious drunk, if anything. Still, his own experience felt a little too real to dismiss outright and he decided to give his host the benefit of the doubt.

When he asked him how he came to this conclusion, Solaire proceeded to tell him he had arrived here in a similar way. What’s more, he wasn’t the only one. He spoke of traveling the land whenever he was on leave and hearing reports of similar cases. It turned out he even _knew_ one of these people from back in Lordran and he had recognized him in turn. The details differed, but the overall story was always the same. They all ‘awoke’ near a shrine or sacred place, had no memory of getting there and were always unclothed. Some also reported to have had brief contact with Aedra or Daedra, higher beings in the religions of this land. 

In order to back up his claims, Solaire had shown him a stack of notes he had made on the events. Besides his own experiences, the notes extensively described two others. The first detailed a young man, his close friend, whom he had run into in Riften as he was about to be wed. The second was his bride, a young woman named Rhea. They had woken up in Markath and the Eldergleam Santuary near Windhelm respectively. The notes also had two entries of only a few words, describing a supposed Half-Giant appearing in Whiterun and a tall, blond woman in Falkreath. Solaire explained he planned to investigate these accounts as soon as he had time. 

The hint of despair Ornstein had felt before started to increase with every word he read and heard. What he had experienced wasn’t a dream or a fit of madness. It had been real and now, he was stuck in a realm from which there was no escape. The reality of his situation had started to sink in and he found himself growing ever more quiet and sullen.

Why, he wondered. Why had a dragon god decided to summon him here? Why could he not simply have left him in the void, to forever embrace the silent dark? Was that perhaps to be his punishment for his crimes? To keep living while he was already tired of life? By cleansing him of his corruption and age, so he would still have many years to live in this strange world where he had nothing and had to start again from scratch? It was too much to take and he could feel how the papers slipped out of his hands. He just sat, his appetite long gone, while his fists clenched in a silent affirmation of anger, loss and powerlessness. 

Suddenly, he could feel how Solaire reached out, touching him gently. “Don’t lose hope, Ornstein. It hardly suits you.”

Even though he smiled as he said it and Ornstein could tell he meant well, it did nothing but infuriate him more. “Do not speak such foolishness. I have lost everything that ever mattered to me long ago. I see no reason to hope for anything better.”

He figured his harsh tone would cow him into silence, but all he saw were Solaire’s blue eyes brimming with fire. “And why not? Will it benefit you more to simply wallow in your sorrow? Well, you can obviously do that for many more years before you are old and gray! You say you lost everything? Well, good. Because that only means you now have nothing left to lose. That is precisely why you should hope and, even more importantly, act.”

Ornstein sat back. He could not recall Gwyn's Firstborn to be so vehement. What happened to the prideful, careless man he knew back at Anor Londo? Still, as he once again looked around his home, he started to understand why his words angered his host. 

Proudspire Manor was a large, comfortable home that certainly didn’t look like it was simply handed to him. Ornstein then remembered how some of the people who had found him referred to Solaire as “Commander” and noted the friendliness but also obvious deference Jordis treated him with. It could be surmised that the former God of War was a highly respected person in this community and he likely worked hard to achieve it. He too had come here as a stranger with nothing and he had made the best of it. No wonder it infuriated him to see him simply give up.

The taller man suddenly found himself tempered by a newfound sense of humility as he responded. “Then what would thou suggest me to do?”

Sensing he was now willing to listen, Solaire smiled. “Join the Legion in nearby Castle Dour. This world is in desperate need of dragon slayers and if I recommend you, they will take you in without question. As for a place to sleep, don’t worry. You can stay here until you are able to seek a home of your own.”

Ornstein could barely believe the words this man had just spoken. He had just offered him his home and resources for an indefinite period. An immeasurable charity, one of which the taller knight was quite certain he did not deserve it. It was inconceivable to him and while he loathed opening old wounds, he could not help but question his hospitality. 

“Why art thou so kind to me? I did nothing when thy father banished thee from Anor Londo. At the moment thou needest me the most, I remained silent and I even raised my sword at thee when th ou returned. How come thou harborest no resentment for that?” 

Much to his surprise, Solaire smiled. “I don’t dwell on the past, especially the dark pages of it. Besides, it’d be quite useless to do so when we can no longer return to Anor Londo. I found my place here. I can only hope you do as well, as I still wish the man I remember as a friend well. Though I do suggest you lose that formal speech of yours if you wish to blend in. No one here speaks in that manner.”

Ornstein simply huffed at that. Was he really supposed to imitate the crude speech patterns that Solaire and his newfound friends adhered to? Act like he belonged to this land too? Still, he was wise enough to keep that remark to himself. All he should express right now was gratitude, for at least having a meal to eat and a place to stay in this odd land called Skyrim, as well as someone familiar to teach him about it.

Solaire stayed more than true to his word. The very next day, on Ornstein’s demand, he took him up to Castle Dour and introduced him to his friends there. Legate Adventus Caesennius was more than willing to take him on and Solaire didn’t mind contributing to the larger armor needed to equip him. Of course, he would have to start at the bottom as a private, but he decided to take it gracefully. After all, if Solaire was right about this town needing dragon slayers, he would prove his worth soon enough…

Luckily, he was proven right. Dragons were indeed a regular occurrence in the province of Skyrim and unlike his fellow soldiers, Ornstein was more than adept at dealing with them. He had almost forgotten how much fun it was to hunt the giant monsters that came tearing out of the sky and it wasn’t long before he was back to his old habit of collecting skulls, using them to adorn all of Castle Dour. 

During this time, he also learned one could make weapons of dragonbone. The idea to use his foes’ bones against them appealed to him and with help from a particularly skilled Dark Elf smith from Morrowind, he was able to replicate his trusty old spear from this material. This acquaintance of Solaire also helped him design and build armor similar to his old one and was wiling to teach him how to imbue his new gear with lightning magic as well. Ornstein had thrown himself into this school of magic eagerly and his abilities grew quickly as his old fervor and dedication returned.

It wasn’t long before his skills were noticed. His efficiency in dealing with the threats as well as leading other soldiers swiftly started earning him promotions as well as other important tasks. In between dragon slaying, fighting undead and raiding Stormcloak operations all over Skyrim, he was rapidly building a name for himself. His endeavors made him invaluable to the Legion and earned him fame, as well as his rank of Legate, without contest. 

Still, even as he became capable of looking after himself and became passionate about his new life in Skyrim, he didn’t forget who helped him get this far. In time, he rebuilt a solid friendship with Solaire. Gwyn's Firstborn had come a long way from the foolish man he once knew and made for pleasant company. Even though Ornstein moved into a home of his own at the first opportunity, not wishing to burden him, the two often visited one another and spent their free time together drinking, swapping tales of battle and most importantly, discussing Solaire’s research on people from Lordran transcending into this realm. 

Even now, Ornstein felt he still had many questions on this matter. At this point, he did thoroughly agree with Solaire’s theory that the people who came here were summoned by the gods somehow. What eluded both of them, however, was why. What designs did they have? How did it benefit them to have people from Lordran come here? More importantly, as he learned about the customs and religions of Skyrim, he learned not all supernatural forces in this world had the best intentions towards humanity. That notion worried him. What else from Lordran could transcend into this place? 

He had tried not to think too much on this, until almost a year into his new life. He had been lingering around Castle Dour with Legate Adventus, General Tulis and Legate Rikke, eating a modest lunch of braided bread, butter and eidar cheese. They were discussing the recent developments as the Civil War in Skyrim had ended. It was mostly standard fare, until Rikke brought up rumors from other parts of the province. 

“There have been reports of people disappearing from the area of Markath. The Jarl has asked reinforcements to deal with the problem.”

Tulius sighed. “Can the hold guards in Markath not take care of it? We can really not trust Jarl Igmund to take care of his own business. You would think he would have figured out how to deal with the Foresworn by now...”

Rikke shook her head. “It is not the Foresworn, General. Eye witnesses say it’s some kind of Giant. Almost like an…Ogre, except more humanoid and muscular.”

Adventus made a face. “Ogre? But are those not usually found in Cyrodill and Valenwood? You think they have come to Skyrim?”

Rikke shrugged. “I don’t know. All I know is that the people are frightened. We should send help soon.”

Tulius gave her a dismissive look. “In due time, Rikke. First, we have to sort out things here.”

Ornstein had barely been paying attention, right up until the moment Rikke started describing the creature that apparently terrorized the Reach. The hand that was about to bring some cheese to his mouth went slack and his mind started to race. He couldn’t explain it, but a strange feeling started to creep up on him.

The more he acknowledged it, the more uncomfortable he became. He felt like his skin was crawling and worms were wriggling inside his stomach. Just thinking about what might be in Markath filled him with an ominous sense of dread. In the past, he would have written off as irrationality. Now, he wasn’t so sure. 

Before he thoroughly realized it, he got up. “General Tulius, I ask your permission to go to Markath and investigate.”

Instantly, he was met with the surprised faces of his compatriots. “Ornstein, we are in the middle of cleaning up after a Civil War. We need you here.”

It was the answer he expected, but his sense of foreboding caused him to push on. “I understand, General, but I have a feeling this problem might prove more troublesome if we ignore it. Please, I will handle this as quickly as possible and return to Solitude. I promise.”

A long silence settled across the courtyard and Ornstein almost feared he had gone too far when his superior finally spoke. “Very well then. If you are so insistent about it, I think you should go. I trust your judgment. Much luck and return to us soon.”

All the Legate could do was nod in relief, but before anyone else could speak, he turned around and started pacing out the Castle. At his manor, he grabbed the most basic necessities and strapped his spear to his back. He then quickly made his way to the city gates, seeking out his large steed before mounting it and riding off to Markath as fast as he could.

He rode all day and all night, only stopping to sleep or to let his horse rest. All the while, his heart was pressing against his ribcage. A sense of urgency pushed him onward, unlike anything he had ever felt. He couldn’t explain it and for the first time in his life, he didn’t try to. All he knew was that he had to get there as fast as possible.

He only started slowing down when he finally reached Karthwasten. He quickly dismounted and sought out the owner of the local mine. At first, the trueborn Reachman refused to talk to what he thought to be an Imperially-minded Nord and Ornstein had a hard time to even keep him from chasing him out of the settlement. It took him all of his persuasion to convince him that he was here to help and he finally got the location where the Ogre was last seen. A place southwest of the village called Reachfall Cave. Ornstein quietly thanked him before heading back to his horse and making his way to the aforementioned location. 

It didn’t take long for him to find it. A horrifying stench pulled him in the direction of the cave and seemed to get stronger the closer he got. Once he saw it, he couldn’t suppress the chills going down his back. There seemed to be a dark, disturbing energy about it, one almost more twisted than the Abyss. There was something terrible in there and he did not look forward to finding out what it was.

He took his spear from his back and inhaled deeply as he entered. Clutching his weapon, he advanced step by step, moving slowly so his eyes got used to the dark. He could hear the rock creak all around him and occasionally, he felt wet and sticky earth under his boots despite knowing for certain the cave had no source of water. 

As he progressed, the stench quickly to become more oppressive. Soon, he found it hard to breathe and he had to force himself to keep going. By now, countless candles started to illuminate the halls and he could spy the blood on the walls. The knot in his stomach only tightened. Whatever was in there, he was becoming ever more certain it was not an Ogre.

Finally, he found himself reaching the main chamber of the cave. By now, the smell was unbearable and it didn’t take him long to figure out the source. All around the chamber, decorated like an ancient dining hall hewn from stone, lay mutilated, decayed human remains.

Ornstein could feel his stomach heave. He leaned on his spear, breathing deeply despite the odorous air suffocating him. He fought to stay upright, trying his best not to make too much noise as he looked around in abject horror. It was no longer a mystery what had happened to all the people who had disappeared in the Reach…

Suddenly, a moment in the shadows caught his attention. Instantly, he held his weapon in front of him, not taking his eyes off the large shape as it stepped out of the shadows. An insidious, deep chuckle reverberated through the chamber and as the creature came into the light, Ornstein no longer simply felt disgust. Added to it was a sense of dread and outright anger.

“You… Of all people, it had to be you…” 

The ghost from his past came closer, a twisted grin of his face. “I do not recall inviting you to my feasts, Dragonslayer. You always much rather dined with your master and fellow Knights. So what wretched deity sent you to find me even here?”

Ornstein could feel his lips draw back into a snarl. “I am more curious what wretched deity saw fit to spit you out into this realm, Smough. Whoever it is, they have a terrible sense of humor…”

The man laughed in his face. “Says the man lacking one entirely. I beg to differ. Lady Namira’s will quite suits me. Here, I can feast without judgment, on better morsels than the sickened, hapless souls Gwyn sent me to execute. I no longer have to suffer his revulsion or that of you moralizing knights, thinking yourselves so much better than me.”

The Knight was not surprised to hear the mention of Namira. He had learned plenty about the Daedric Princes and the Devourer of the Dead was no stranger to him. Of course, only a being so sickening could conceive of releasing Anor Londo’s executioner onto another realm. 

It seemed Smough could sense his thoughts. “Even now, you look down upon me. You think me some mere monster. Still, you were more than willing to make use of me. You and Gwyn and those fools you led… I was always useful to do the dirty work you all felt too good for, so the blood was never on your hands. But no longer…”

Ornstein remained silent as the man spoke. As much as he wanted to deny it, he knew there was truth to his words. Smough had been a skilled executioner and ferocious fighter. It was why Gwyn had kept him around despite his deviant behavior, willing to put up with it as long as those who troubled him were dead. Back then, Ornstein’s loyalty had prevented him from objecting to his Lord’s decisions. As much as Smough disgusted him, he would not dare contradict Gwyn and even agreed to work with him. After all, he refused to believe his superiors might be wrong and as an honorable man, he obeyed and even held out hope he could somehow shape the executioner into a better person.

He had been wrong. Smough was a monster, clear and simple. The only thing that prevented him from turning on everyone was the knowledge he would die if he did. Once Gwyn was gone, it didn’t take long before he threw himself at every hapless prey he could. And what had the Knight done to stop it? He had been blinded by honor and oath to a Lord slowly burning away and as he was not in direct danger of Smough’s wrath, he had not interfered as the executioner claimed his victims. Merely thinking about it made him sick now. How many innocent people had died while he stood by and did nothing? In the Cathedral? In Anor Londo? In Lordran as a whole?

The behemoth stepped further out of the shadows and Ornstein could see how he dragged a weapon behind him. It reminded him of a club like the Giants of Skyrim would wield, but it seemed modified to resemble the executioner’s old warhammer. He forced himself not to move and Smough smiled.

“Here, there are no consequences for my vices. No God King to punish me if I step out of line. You’re alone, Dragonslayer, without Lord Gwyn’s word to protect you. I always wondered what the Captain of the Four Knights would taste like…”

Ornstein clenched his teeth. His grip on his weapon tightened and he stood up straight. He assumed his fighting stance and at that moment, he could feel pure anger flowing through him. 

“The only thing you will taste is your own blood. Let me show you the skill of a true warrior.”

Smough simply laughed at him. Then, without warning, he leaped forward. His weapon came down with a deafening bang and Ornstein only barely had time to rush out of his path. He counterattacked immediately, rushing up behind him and trying to drive his dragonbone spear into the man’s spine. The executioner saw him coming, however, and rapidly swung his large hammer into an arch to keep him at bay. 

Leaping back, the knight quickly responded by firing a lightening bolt in his direction. The projectile hit the target and he saw with some small satisfaction that it enraged Smough. Clearly, the brute had no expected him to learn some new tricks with lightning. Soon, he came charging up to him again, pushing his weapon in front of him to bury him in an avalanche of force and upturned rock. Ornstein jumped out of the way, nimbly sidestepping the pieces of stone furniture that flew in his direction, watching his opponent closely. 

If Smough had pulled any punches before, he certainly stopped doing so now. He started swinging his makeshift hammer wildly, smashing whatever was left of the room in an effort to hit him. Ornstein relied on his superior speed to stay away from the onslaught, vaulting over the rubble that started to fill the cramped quarters. Whenever he saw an opening, he would leap towards the brute and attack, looking for the weaknesses in his improvised armor to take him down one strike at the time.

Noting the increasing frustration of his opponent, the knight became bolder. As the man stomped the ground and shook the earth, he dashed towards him. He started driving his spear between the segments of plated metal. He smiled as he was rewarded by gushing blood, flashing it at his enemy to infuriate him even more. He jumped and rolled as the executioner furiously swung at him, dancing around him and enticing him to follow. He knew someone of Smough’s stature could only keep up with him for so long.

Ornstein was soon proven right. His adversary’s swings were getting slower and he noticed how his legs started to buckle. Seizing his chance, he goaded the executioner into another leap. When he did, he raced towards him, sliding underneath his enemy’s attack and getting behind him. As the behemoth landed with a thundering crash, the knight struck. He thrust his spear towards the man’s leg and with deadly precision, he stabbed it between the armor plates to sever the hamstring.

Within the blink of an eye, Smough lurched forward, falling down on one knee. He tried to lean on his weapon, struggling to stay upright and even from his position, Ornstein could detect the shock on his face. Without hesitating, the knight approached rapidly, moving in for the kill. 

Suddenly, with a speed with that he thought impossible at this stage, the executioner managed to turn. His muscles tensed and with an incredible burst of strength, he lifted the hammer and swung it towards him. It all went so fast that Ornstein didn’t even have the time to evade and the wind was knocked out of him as the weapon violently collided with his side. 

His screams echoed through the cave as he could feel his ribs crack. The agony only increased as he was thrown against the stone floor, doubling the pressure on his broken bones. He could taste blood as he coughed and grit his teeth as he tried to get to his feet. With ringing ears and blurry vision, he scrambled around to look for his spear. He couldn’t find it and the intense pain was making his senses numb. He shook his head, trying desperately to think. Heal… He needed to heal himself quickly…

He reached out to his satchel, trying to fetch the medication he brought with him. He didn’t get the chance. A large hand suddenly wrapped itself around his ankle and pulled. He groaned as he once again hit the floor, only to release a panicked yell as he found Smough loom over him. His helmet was then yanked from his head and two large hands clasped around it. Immeasurable pressure was suddenly applied to his skull and he could feel it cracking at he stared up at the executioner’s malevolent face.

“I’m going to crush you! Crush your skull slowly, so you can feel the life flow out of you! And then I’m going to eat you, organ for organ and limb for limb! I have waited for this a long time…”

Deep, unadulterated fear flowed through Ornstein’s body along with the excruciating pain. He clawed at his aggressor’s hands, but Smough didn’t budge even an inch. The pressure on his head was becoming unbearable and he knew that soon, his skull would be nothing but a pool of blood and brain matter. 

No. 

Even despite the pain and pressure, he could feel his mind scream that word in protest. He wasn’t going to die here. He refused to die here, especially at the hands of a monster like this. If he died here, Smough would be free to cause even more victims. He had done nothing to stop that before. Now, he would fight to do so till this last breath. 

That sense of determination gave him strength. In a last effort to save himself, he reached out, fingers digging into his aggressor’s skin. He grabbed the executioner’s arms and focusing the remaining strength he had left, he unleashed a powerful surge of lightning, hot enough to sear the skin. 

A horrific yowl filled the space and instantly, the pressure was gone from his head. Howling in agony, Smough jerked away from him, only to flail and fall down again thanks to his severed leg muscles. Forcing himself to sit up, Ornstein continued to hurl lightning at him. Employing every little bit of destruction magic he had learned, he continued to strike him, viciously and mercilessly, only stopping when the brute lay paralyzed and bleeding onto the cave floor.

Once he was certain the monster was down, he pushed himself to stand. He could feel his body scream at every small movement he made, but he was beyond caring. He limped over to where his spear was and picked it up before making his way over to the executioner’s motionless body. 

In the dim light, he could see Smough’s expression change. The malicious sneer was gone from his face. Instead, it now displayed a measure of emotions he had never seen on his face. Shock. Anger. Surprise. Yet, most of all, Ornstein could see fear.

“Please… Spare…me… Mercy…”

The knight could feel rage well up in the deepest part of his being. How had he ever thought this monster could attain honor in any sense? This fiend, who murdered and devoured his victims, could not even face his death with dignity, pathetically pleading to the man whom he would have killed without second thought. Once upon a time, his honor might have him consider an alternate solution. Now, he scoffed and his words came out in a growl. 

“Mercy? Like you have bestowed on every unfortunate soul that wandered in here? Like you would have shown me mere moments ago? If that is how you define mercy, that is exactly what you will have from me!” 

The sense of panic on the executioner’s face increased, only to suddenly turn back into a smirk. “You are bluffing, Dragonslayer. I know you are. You will not just cut me down. You care too much about your precious honor to finish off a helpless opponent! So drop the act. We both know you are simply going to walk out and…”

By now, Ornstein had heard enough. Using all his strength, he slammed down a foot on the fiend’s chest. He gasped for air and the knight leaned over him, his green eyes shooting fire.

“I might have, when still entangled in my duties in Anor Londo. But like you said, we are not in Anor Londo. So I do not plan to do what is honorable. I plan to do what is _right_.”

The icy cold tone of his voice was enough for that hideous smirk to disappear from Smough’s face again. Even in the faint light, he could see his eyes grow large and his skin grow pale. He looked like a man who had just seen death and frankly, he was right. 

“This…was not how it was supposed to be! Namira promised I would be her champion! That I could indulge myself before she would embrace me in Oblivion…”

Despite his anger and determination, Ornstein could not resist a final taunt to his wretched claim. “Then to Oblivion with you!”

Without even hesitating, he raised his dragnbone spear and then stabbed it into the behemoth’s heart. He yowled in pain, but Ornstein knew it wouldn’t kill him. Not that it mattered. What he would no next certainly would. 

Focusing all his magicka, he unleashed a giant bolt of lightning and sent it through his weapon. Inhuman shrieks filled up the cave, loud and desperate enough to cut through bone. Still, Ornstein was deaf to this last, incoherent plea for mercy and continued to guide lightning through the spear. He kept doing so until he ran out of magicka, only to continue the moment it replenished again.

Only when the screams finally stopped did Ornstein cease. He pulled back his weapon and looked over his work. The stench of burning flesh was overwhelming and the executioner’s face and body were mutilated beyond recognition. His mouth still hung open in the scream that died in his throat. The sight was gruesome to behold, yet Ornstein found he felt nothing other than his own physical pain and, above all, relief.

He bowed his head, briefly overcome by the sense of honor he had not yet forsaken. “Find peace in death…”

The moment he uttered those words, he could feel his own knees buckle. The throbbing of his cracked ribs was becoming too much and he calmly let himself slide to the floor. Only now did he realize he was breathing heavily and as he maneuvered himself into a sitting position, his trembling hand reached for his satchel. He took out the medication and put it to his lips. He then remained still, quietly waiting for the healing effects to kick in. 

It felt like an eternity before he found the will to rise again and he walked over to retrieve his helmet. He was relieved to find the pain had already lessened somewhat, but he knew he was far from done. He looked towards the altar at the end of the room. He shot it a foul glare and started to gather all the torches and candles lying about, wanting to make sure no one would ever be enticed to come to this terrible place again.

The entrance of Reachfall Cave was but a gaping maw spitting flames by the time he emerged from it. The fire raged and devoured everything within, hopefully destroying the shrine to the Daedric Prince for good. Ornstein paid no mind to the blaze as he walked to his horse. His work here was done and after stopping by Markath to have his wounds healed properly, he would return to Solitude as quickly as he could. 

Yet, as he rode away, he couldn’t help but feel something had changed inside of him. A strange sense of peace had come over him, once he could not remember feeling for a long time. He wondered where it came from and why he felt it now, riding away from a dark cave and battered after viciously killing a man he had once fought beside. 

Perhaps, he wondered, it was that for the first time in his life, he made a decision that was not based on duty. His decision to kill Smough had been one of principle. It had been about eliminating a threat to others who could truly not defend themselves, rather than removing an enemy of a Lord sealed in his high tower.

That thought suddenly made Ornstein smile. Confronting Smough had felt like confronting the past and this time, he felt he had done the right thing. He had used his strength for good, not for the whims of his superiors. After years of slowly losing himself amidst codes of chivalry, he had finally put his principles before duty. He had been a true Knight… 

He realized how ironic that was. To be a knight in a world that did not have any. Still, he found it did not matter. This odd land, which the god Akatosh had seen fit to put him in, was his home now. His place was with Solaire, with whom he was certain to share this tale for his research while drinking mead and with whom he hoped to embark on a trip to Whiterun to investigate the transcendence rumors there. With his fellow soldiers of the Legion, on the frontline of battle to protect the people of Skyrim. They made him feel welcome and needed and he would do everything in his power to protect the home they had given him. That was what a Knight should be and that was what he wished to be.

He looked up at the sky, wondering if the dragon god was watching him. He wasn’t sure and honestly, it didn’t matter to him. He had long since given up on questioning the motives of higher beings, instead choosing to play a good game with the hand he was dealt. The god of time had given him a second chance and no matter the reason, he graciously accepted it.


	6. Azura's Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sweet Shalquoir meets kindred spirits.

“This place is fascinating.”

Those words passed the lips of a most unusual creature. It had only arrived in this land some time ago and was not native to this place, or even this plane, at all. Her blue eyes scoured the snowy expanses with great interest. Any average person might feel very cold, but her body was covered with layers of thick fur to shield her. Even so, she hoped the endless ice was not the only thing about this new place.

Sweet Shalquoir had happened upon this realm in the most peculiar way. Having long lost her interest in the affairs of Drangleic, she had gathered her wits and set about finding a new home. After all, all things bored cats eventually and it was in their nature to leave a home when it was no longer to their liking.

So, she had set out to find herself a new haven. At first, it had not been successful at all. Everywhere she went, the landscape was littered with Undead and hardly suitable to her tastes. Either shrouded in darkness or lit with a false sun, every single place she visited was a sullen mess. In fact, she was wondering if perhaps, this world had anything worthwhile for a cat at all. 

Then, as she seemingly traveled to the ends of the earth, she had appeared. A beautiful, young woman dressed in flowing robes and with a wreath of flowers around her head. She was quite fair by human standards and had approached her with immense friendliness. She expressed no surprise at being confronted with a talking feline. In fact, she rather seemed to welcome it. She had offered her some food and drink and they had ended up conversing.

The woman, who introduced herself as Azura, asked her many a strange question. For some reason, she seemed aware that she was no mere cat and wondered out loud what such an ancient and powerful being was doing at the far corners of the earth. Shalquoir proceeded to express her frustration with Drangleic. Her part in the realm’s future was over and she had no good or at least entertaining reason to stay in this realm anymore. 

Azura had listened in understanding and then made her an offer she could not possibly refuse. She had let slip that she herself was not what she seemed, a fact the feline had already caught onto. She called herself a Daedric Prince, a godlike being of infinite power, and explained that she was from a realm far beyond this cursed world. Few mortals had been allowed there, but Shalquoir was no mere mortal and she had a feeling her humble home might be the ideal getaway for a curious cat. 

Of course, the tenacious tabby had been quick to accept the invitation of this strange woman. Being an immortal, impervious to harm, she had nothing to fear. Besides, she was good at gleaning people’s intentions and she could sense Azura had no intention of harming her. As such, a long vacation sounded just about right to her.

She had not been disappointed. Azura seemed very eager to host an interesting guest and had arranged for her transportation immediately. With only a soft sigh, she had been spirited away from dreary Drangleic to a world beyond her imagination. 

No words in any tongue could describe the realm called Moonshadow. It was nothing like the ugly iron castles of her former home and the desolation which surrounded it. This realm was instead awash with light and made of endless vibrant colors, ones known and unknown to humanity, that seemed to blur into a glorious design no painter could ever replicate.

Everywhere Shalquoir looked, she could see exquisite gardens which were set in foreign patterns and were filled with the most beautiful roses she had ever seen. Amidst these gardens was a city made out of the purest silver and beyond them were stunning vistas with mighty waterfalls, majestic trees and flowers with colors and shapes she had never seen before. Pleasant scents drifted towards her on the wind and sweet summer rain and at that moment, the feline immortal knew she would quite enjoy her time here.

She had been utterly right, of course. For perhaps an eternity, she was Azura’s guest in a palace made of the reddest roses and she cherished every moment of it. She dined on the finest dishes and was provided with entertainment beyond her wildest imagination. She would regularly converse with the Winged Twilights and other wondrous creatures that inhabited the realm. Every once in a while, she would even happen upon mortals who entered the plan by meditation and told her of many affairs happening beyond the veil. Azura was a kind host to all and Shalquoir felt the deity made for good company indeed.

Still, it was unavoidable for her wanderlust to eventually set in once more. Some of the mortals who passed through were peculiar creatures. They looked nothing like humans, with their odd gray skin, red eyes and pointed ears. They spoke of a plane beyond Moonshadow and Oblivion called Mundus, filled with dragons and monsters she had never seen before. Naturally, it made her curious and one night, she brought up the subject with her benefactor.

Azura had expressed a small manner of sadness at her desire to leave, but nonetheless understood. Her realm, after all, was far too peaceful for the adventurous mind. As such, she was more than willing to grand her passage to Mundus. After all, she told her, it had happened before. 

Fellow Daedric Princes, as well as Divines, had guided favored souls from her world into Mundus as well, each for their own designs. Among these were grand knights and assassins, fallen gods, monsters in human skin and abandoned souls. Some had even taken hold of delusional, infatuated blood knights and trickster merchants for their games, as favored by Mephala and Clavicus Vile. As such, she saw no reason why not to grand Shalquoir that favor. 

Of course, Azura had been kind enough to explain the process of transcending to the plane of Mundus. Shalquoir would go to sleep and then awake in a place where the Goddess’s influence was strongest. Unfortunately, this was a shrine rather removed from civilization, but there was a solution to it. There was still a priestess of hers lingering there named Aranea Ienith. If the Daedric Prince willed it, she would surely be willing to bring her to the nearest city of interest. 

These terms all seemed more than fair to the cat. She had been mindful to thank her host for all her kindness and generosity. Azura had been flattered and told her that if she ever tired of her travels in Mundus, she was more than welcome back in her realm. Shalquoir promised to make use of that offer, before going off and taking her final nap in the idyllic realm. 

Indeed, now she had woken up, she was no longer in Moonshadow. Instead, the world around her was cold and encased in ice. She found herself at the foot of a large statue bearing Azura’s likeness. Still, she seemed to be entirely alone and for the briefest of moments, the feline wondered if the Daedric Prince had kept her end of the bargain entirely.

Suddenly, a figure came up the steps. On instinct, Shalquoir arched her back and a small hiss escaped her mouth. Her blue eyes looked the person over cautiously. It seemed to be a woman and was dressed in long blue robes. She looked in her direction and smiled.

“You must be the guest whose arrival Lady Azura foretold.”

The woman’s statement calmed the cat somewhat. Her raised hairs flattened again and her ears perked. She walked up to the lady and noticed her gray skin and red eyes. She was of the same kind that regularly visited Moonshadow; Dunmer, or Dark Elves, as Azura had called them.

“Ah, you must be Aranea Ienith then. You may call me Shalquoir. Indeed, Azura sent me here. She said you were capable of leading me to civilization.”

The Dunmer priestess smiled. “That is correct. She commanded me to bring someone by your name to Dawnstar. Though I did not quite expect anyone like you.”

Her surprised face caused the feline to laugh. “Oh dear, this world is apparently not rife with talking cats, is it?”

Her new traveling companion shook her head. “No. Not the kind that looks like you anyway. But it doesn’t matter. Dawnstar awaits.”

Aranea then paused for a moment. She gave her a look, seemingly hesitant on what to do. While Shalquoir appreciated the woman not simply picking her up unasked like a mere housecat, she had already contemplated how she preferred to travel. 

“Hold still.”

The woman did as asked and Shalquoir used her agility to jump up on her shoulders, draping her body over them like a scarf. “There, that way you do not have to tire your arms carrying me and I have the most splendid view. Shall we then?”

The Dark Elf laughed and started moving. They soon left the shrine and Shalquoir was pleased to hear they wouldn’t travel by foot. After climbing onto a horse that the priestess had managed to obtain earlier, they rode off towards Dawnstar. 

The trip was pleasant and smooth. On the way, Shalquoir asked as many questions as she could. She soon learned she was in the province of Skyrim, part an Empire named Tamriel. It was a cold and hostile land whose natives were a people called the Nords and it had recently lived through a bitter Civil War. She was told that it was a place that held many natural dangers but that an immortal like her should have no problem navigating it. 

Shalquoir soon got a hint of these potential dangers as they rested at a place called Frostflow Lighthouse. She had stiffened on Aranea’s shoulder as the woman suddenly ended their conversation, jumping up and taking defensive stance. She soon understood why as she saw two large wolf-like creatures skulking about the area. The creatures took notice of them as well and started to growl fiercely. The cat became tense, readying herself for a potential fight.

The fight, however, never came and after several seconds of trying to assess the situation, the feline figured it out. While understanding Aranea’s apprehension, she quickly realized that the beings weren’t interested in attacking. If anything, the much larger male only seemed interested in protecting his smaller female companion, whom Shalquoir couldn’t help but notice had an odd scent about her and a notably protruding belly. She had quietly whispered this to her Dunmer guide and the woman had stood down, after which the wolf-things left without harming them.

The rest of the way to Dawnstar was without incident. The priestess dropped her off at the edge of the town and asked her if she needed anything else before she left. The cat assured her she would be fine and thanked her for her efforts before watching her ride off. She then turned to the town. It was rather small, but she didn’t plan to stay here forever and she was certain she could explore and scrounge up some tasty morsels here before moving on.

“Let’s see what this town has to offer.”

Thus, Shalquoir giddily descended upon Dawnstar. Despite being small and snowy, she had to admit it was quite lovely. It had an old museum, large mines, an interesting abandoned temple nearby and a rather comfortable inn, making it a more than acceptable first stop on her travels. Sightseeing was easy enough. As long as she didn’t speak, everyone assumed her to be a regular cat and if she played the affectionate card, most were content to simply have her wandering about. 

Food and water was not an issue either. The area was overflowing with salmon, which she didn’t even have to catch herself. With a well-placed purr or nuzzle, the fishermen were happy to share some fish and roe with her. She also enjoyed the petting and scratching that came with the food and was once again amused that it seemed to make people feel fulfilled to give _her_ all the attention. Humans were strange creatures indeed.

She lingered about the town for several days this way, before planning her departure to greener pastures. She had just finished a glorious meal at the Windpeak Inn and she had set about the town looking for transport. She had figured that perhaps she could hitch a ride on the many carts transporting iron and quicksilver, when she noticed something odd at the town’s outskirts that she had not seen before.

Curiously, she had temporarily abandoned her thoughts of leaving and decided to investigate. A small camp had been set up on the edge of Dawnstar, probably during the night. Several people were milling about, but they didn’t look like humans or elves. In fact, as Shalquoir approached, she could see they had fur and tails. When she finally reached the tents, she could only stare in surprise. 

What she was looking at were actual two-legged speaking cats.

The feline couldn’t believe her eyes. Never in her eternally long life could she have ever conceived of creatures like these. She found herself slipping deeper into the camp, completely captivated by these odd beings. 

They were probably nomads of a sort, she determined. The tents definitely looked like the kind that could be easily taken apart to move to the next location. She could see crates stacked everywhere and many contained all sorts of merchandise. Traveling salespeople that were talking, bipedal cats. It amused her to no end that she had found the equivalent of herself in this new realm. 

Overtaken by inquisitiveness, she sniffed the crates, in particularly one with an unknown, pleasantly smelling sugar. In that moment, she had forgotten her cover and one of the cat-people noticed her. He paced over and started to gently shoo her, though his voice betrayed amusement. 

“Psh. Go away, little one. We need to sell that.”

His friendly response put Shalquoir at ease and she decided to drop her guard. “Oh, don’t worry about me. I have no intention of stealing your merchandise.”

The cat-man fell silent and his eyes went wide. “You are Khajiit as well?”

The feline was not certain what to answer to that strange question. What was a Khajiit? Was it what this race of human-like cats was called? As she was mulling over a possible response, the male looked over his shoulder and called out to someone.

“Dro’marash, come look! There is an Alfiq here in Dawnstar!”

A second one came over, a skeptical look on his face. “An Alfiq? Don’t be absurd! Alfiq do not go outside of Elseweyr.”

The second cat creature stooped down beside his comrade and looked her over skeptically. As they started to argue about whether she was a mere housecat or this thing they called an Alfiq, Shalquoir figured this was an excellent time to start talking again. She turned to both of them, remaining utterly polite.

“My apologies, but I don’t think I quite understand what the two of you are talking about.”

Now, the other cat-human stared at her as well, looking similarly surprised. “You speak. Alfiq never speak, but neither do cats. You are probably not Khajiit, but what are you then?”

Shalquoir chuckled. “I think you mean yourself with a Khajiit, which I am most definitely not. But I am no mere cat either. You may call me Shalquoir. What are the names of the handsome gentlemen I have just acquainted myself with?”

Both the Khajiit laughed and the one she spoke to first introduced himself. “You flatter us. I am Kharjo and this is Dro’marash. We protect this caravan. But if you are not Alfiq or cat, then what are you?”

Shalquoir laughed. “I am afraid it might sound like a tall tale to you, but if you feel inclined to listen, I shall be glad to share it with you.”

“This one is certain such a peculiar creature must have an interesting tale to tell indeed. Entertain me, little one.”

The feline was more than happy to tell her story when a third, harsh voice sounded from the tents. “Dro’marash! Kharjo! Stop entertaining yourselves with the cat! Look after Zaynabi! Her condition is getting worse!”

Both men’s eyes went wide at the command and with a quick apology, they got up and rushed to one of the tents. Not quite ready on giving up contact with her fascinating new acquaintances, Shalquoir followed them. She carefully peeked inside the one the Khajiit went into, wondering what was going on.

What she saw within wasn’t at all agreeable. Inside was a female, lying on a simple bedroll. Her dark fur was drenched with sweat, her pupils were dilated and her breathing was heavy. She was in terrible shape, clear to anyone with eyes in their head and sense in their mind.

Kharjo offered her some water. “Stay strong, Zaynabi. We will find you a cure, I promise.”

Dro’marash turned to another female Khajiit, seemingly their leader. “Have you found anyone yet?”

The older woman shook her head, her voice angry. “No. No one seems willing to help us. As far as these Nords are concerned, the death of one of ours is just one skooma dealer less…”

By now, Shalquoir was more confused than anything. Part of her knew it was not her place to ask. She had only just met these…people of sorts and she was not known to overtly care about the affairs of others. Still, there was something about seeing another feline in pain that disturbed her deeply. So, she decided to be bold and inquire as to the situation.

“May I ask what troubles you?”

Instantly, she could feel the leader glare at her suspiciously. On instinct, the feline lowered her head and turned her ears downwards defensively. Thankfully, Dro’marash was more willing to explain their current dilemma. He sighed deeply as he looked at his sick friend.

“That one is gravely ill. Bone Break Fever. We have no medication to treat her and Khajiit are not allowed in cities. And Nords do not want to help us, because they think we are thieves and liars.”

The leader nodded. “This one has been trying to talk to Nords for hours. Even offered them money as reward for bringing medicine. But they refuse. To Nords, we are trash.”

Shalquoir could only listen in absolute distaste. Then and there, she decided she did not much like Skyrim’s native people or at least not the ones who were content to see a sentient being die slowly simply because they didn’t like them. Even she wasn’t that cruel when playing with her food.

Yet, as she looked over the situation, an idea suddenly occurred to her. A positively brilliant plan that didn’t seem to have occurred to anyone else. Part of her wondered if she had gone soft by wishing to aid a fellow being without reward. Still, she told herself, felidae should adhere to some sense of solidarity. 

“Pardon me, but I think I might be able to help you with this conundrum.”

Suddenly, she felt three pairs of eyes looking her way. Two with genuine interest, another with skepticism. Nevertheless, she continued without flinching.

“You may not be allowed to enter the city, but I am. Let me retrieve the medicine for you. It should not be an issue at all.”

Instantly, she was met with weird looks and a particularly dismissive one from the female in charge. “Nords are prejudiced but not stupid. They will not sell to a talking cat such as yourself. They will run screaming or chase you out. They don’t take kindly to anything resembling a Khajiit.”

Shalquoir simply laughed. “Ah, but you forget. I don’t have to speak and I do not resemble any Khajiit they likely know of. When I hold my tongue, I am merely a cat to them and a cat can get in anywhere. Including, and not limited to, the local alchemy shop.”

Instantly, the woman gave her a displeased expression, her voice reduced to a growl. “Khajiit will not have you steal. Our reputation is already bad enough as it is.”

All the cat did was shake her head with a giggle. “Oh my! Whoever said anything about stealing? Oh no, I am a cat, not a rat. Simply give me the coin needed for the medicine and I shall provide. Today seems like a pleasant time for some lawful cat burgling indeed.” 

The female narrowed her eyes. “How will I know you will not simply run off with our hard-earned septims?”

Shalquoir simply walked up to her, tail lazily swinging behind her. She then sat at her feet, yawning. She then calmly stretched a little, not bothering to keep the sarcasm out of her tone.

“Because, as you so helpfully pointed out, it will be hardly inconspicuous to spend money as a talking cat. Besides, it does not seem you have all that many options, now do you?”

The Khajiit woman simply sighed. Then, without so much as a word, she marched to a nearby chest. She grabbed a small pouch of money and put it in front of her. She then crossed her arms.

“Be back soon and don’t break this one’s trust.”

The feline simply chuckled again and took the pouch into her mouth. She then ran off as quickly as she could into Dawnstar. From memory, she easily made her way to the Mortar and Pestle where she knew she would find exactly what she was looking for.

She sidled up to the shop and peered through the cracks of the wooden door. There was only one person in the store; a single older woman who was behind the counter and likely owned the shop. Shalquoir quietly waited until she looked away from the door and moved towards what looked like a small alchemy lab. 

The cat took her chance. She carefully put her paw against the door, pushing against it to open it. She then worked her body through the gap and rapidly made a sprint towards the counter.

By the time the old woman noticed the door ajar, she was well out of sight. Her eyes went across the cases behind her. She quietly read the labels on all the bottles and used her superior scent to deduce the contents. It didn’t take long for her to spy the right kind of potion on the upper shelf. 

Making sure the woman turned to her work at the alchemy lab, she quickly leaped onto the counter and put down the money. From her new perch, she then readied herself for another jump. With the grace that came so natural to all felines, she jumped into the cupboard, not disturbing a single bottle in it. She then delicately took the bottleneck between her teeth and hopped down again, landing gracefully. 

She quietly looked to see if the woman was still distracted, before making another beeline for the door. As before, she pried it open with her paw and squirmed through. She twitched and stiffened as she noticed the door started creaking something awful when opened from this side. 

Right that moment, she heard how the woman behind her started to turn around. She could hear a surprised noise leave her mouth. Obviously, she had noticed the small, furry body halfway out the door and was probably not pleased seeing a cat just wandering about her store.

Knowing it was now or never, Shalquoir leaped into action. She pulled the rest of her body through and started running as fast as her four legs could carry her. Being careful not to damage the small delicate bottle, she raced across the porch and through snow, rapidly putting distance between her and the shop. 

The cat could hear the woman call after her, but it didn’t move her to stop. She didn’t feel bad about tricking the old lady. It was all for a good cause. Besides, her pain would definitely be eased once she found the ample coin covering her “theft”.

As fast as she could, she hurried back to the Khajiit camp. She could already see the leader waiting for her and she practically flew at the woman. She then put the bottle down in front of her, finally allowing her to open her mouth and pant after the impressive sprint she had just managed.

The female quickly took the medication and then rushed towards her companion in the tent. She pushed aside Dro’marash and Kharjo, lifting Zaynabi’s head and forcing her to drink down the strange liquid. The darker-furred female didn’t protest and it wasn’t long after she had emptied the contents that she seemingly became calmer and her pupils started to become a little smaller.

Her voice still raspy and weak, she expressed her fatigue. Her fellow Khajiit simply urged her to sleep, saying she was safe now. Shalquoir watched how they pulled the blanket over her and left the tent, all seeming relieved.

Kharjo smiled. “She will make it.” 

The feline nodded quietly as she sat down for a moment. She had to say she felt quite accomplished, having just single-handedly saved the life of another cat. It was not every day she could play the hero as opposed to a merchant. 

Yet, as she sat there having her moment, she suddenly saw the leader of the group approach her. She cocked her head, unsure what the woman wanted from her. The female Khajiit, however, crouched to reach her level and showed her a genuine smile. 

“Please forgive this one’s harshness from before. I was worried for my companion and it is so rare that anyone ever helps us. You have done us an immeasurable service, little one, and this one won’t soon forget it. You are welcome with us for as long as you please, even as far as Riften.”

Shalquoir perked her ears at that. She had heard of Riften with its Thieves’ Guild, Black-Briar Meadery and fisheries. It seemed like a most exciting place to visit and she definitely didn’t mind traveling there with agreeable company. She turned to the woman, more than happy with this arrangement.

“Then don’t mind if I do. You seem like lovely company to travel with.”

That night, the feline truly had the most splendid time since she arrived here in Skyrim. Enjoying a delicious meal of sugared meat, she went about learning as much as she could about her fascinating fellow travelers. They were a lot with a great sense of humor and went about telling her plenty of amusing tales, both from Skyrim and their home province of Elseweyr.

The leader, Ahkari as she learned her name was, was a great help. She provided much information and was willing to believe her stories as well. Much to Shalquoir’s relief, she didn’t even doubt her story about Moonshadow. Azura, or Azurah as Ahkari pronounced it, was a well-known deity to the Khajiit. She was credited as their creator and some had even visited her realm. Naturally, the cat was then asked a million questions about her stay there and she had fun answering them to the best of her ability.

Every once in a while, their conversations would be interrupted by some Nords passing by the camp. As the cat had guessed before, the Khajiit were merchants and while the Nords didn’t have a high opinion of them, they clearly made use of their services quite extensively. Many would come by to deal with them when they thought no one was looking and this way, they made quite a good living. Being among other catlike merchants was more than a little funny to Shalquoir and a great deal of the conversation was soon directed towards buying merchandise, haggling and drawing in customers. 

Still, the tranquil, pleasant atmosphere didn’t last forever. It was only a matter of time before the prejudices of the Nords reared their ugly heads. Suddenly, a group of positively the ugliest men the feline had ever seen came stalking towards the camp. She could instantly smell trouble in the air. Her hairs were raised and a small hiss escaped her mouth. She was soon proven right.

“Get out of our town, cats! Nobody wants you here!”

Shalquoir could feel Ahkari wince from her position on the Khajiit’s lap. Nonetheless, she proceeded to ignore the slur and indicated for the others to do the same. The Nords were obviously not pleased with this and started to stomp into the camp.

“Are you deaf? We said, get your hairy paws out of our town!”

Going by instinct, the feline instantly got off Ahkari’s lap and stalked off into the darkness. The Nords seemed to disregard her entirely and she used this to her advantage. From the shadows, she started to assess this new potential threat. The men wore little armor, but were nevertheless armed to the teeth. They came here expecting a fight and something about their attitude told her they were looking for one regardless of the response. 

The Khajiit seemed to realize that too. Kharjo stood up, a hand on his sword. “Khajiit are not in your town, but on the outskirts. The law allows us to be here. Go trouble someone else!” 

All he got in response was a huff. “Oh, the cat thinks he can tell us what to do. We don’t want your kind here! You’re thieves and skooma dealers, preying on gullible Nords to sell your junk to! So how about you leave, before we light it all on fire?”

The tension in the camp was thick enough to be cut with a knife. Still, Shalquoir was certain that was not the kind of cutting that would be done. These men were out of for blood and a Khajiit camp was an acceptable target. Not surprising, if Ahkari’s statements on Nord sentiments towards Khajiit were true. 

Dro’marash stood up as well, growling at them. “We have come to Dawnstar countless times without incident, yet now we are a thorn in your eye? Or are you simply looking for a way to stay busy? We know you; you’re pirates and plunderers! Did Stig Salt-Plank send you to stir up trouble when there are no ships to raid?” 

An unsettling silence briefly settled over the situation. For a moment, there was an uncomfortable expression on the faces of the invaders. The feline could only assume Dro’marash’s conclusion was right and that irked her greatly. Cats relieved their boredom by preying on weaker creatures. She held humans to higher standards. 

Suddenly, the Nords’ faces drew back into a visage of anger. The sound of steel being drawn reverberated shattered the silence. The two Khajiit warriors followed suit, even though it was painfully clear they were outnumbered. Their opponents seemed to realize this all too well as they sneered at them.

“You’ll make a fine rug, cat!”

By now, Shalquoir felt she had watched this travesty long enough. Her paws were itching to teach these brutes some manners. Seeing how they didn’t seem particularly smart or fast, she knew exactly how to achieve it. 

Swifter than any human could ever move, she charged at the nearest aggressor. She leaped off the ground and extended her claws. She dug them in the nearest exposed flesh she could find and with deadly precision and rage, started to tear it apart much like she would disembowel a particularly mangy rat. 

The Nord started to howl as his skin was rapidly reduced to bloody strips, but before he could even grasp at her or realize what was going on, she was gone again. She simply hurled herself at the next man to give him a similar treatment, adding some needle sharp teeth for proper effect. She then ran off before he realized what happened as well, only to charge again from the shadows at another angle.

Within the blink of an eye, she repeated this pattern. With fast swipes and ferocious bites, she managed to draw ample amounts of blood. Before the men could even think to strike, she disappeared again, only to reappear in the last place they expected to launch another assault. By now, the Nords were swiftly losing their cool and, more importantly, started to get scared.

“A familiar! They must be summoning some kind of familiar! Stick together! They’re trying to scare us!”

“Shor’s bones! No familiar moves like this! It’s some kind of evil spirit! This camp has Daedra watching over it! Forget this, it’s not worth the pay!”

“Don’t run, you coward! We had a job to do! There it is again!”

“By Ysmir, it’s biting me!”

“Where did it go? It’s coming back again for us, I know it!”

“To Oblivion with the job! I’m getting out of here! Nobody said I’d be dealing with Daedra! I’d rather drink some more mead!”

Within minutes, whatever unity the pirates had felt was rapidly breaking down and Shalquoir noted with glee how one by one, they started to turn tail and run. It inspired her to up her performance by delivering damning warnings in the most demonic voice she could muster. That seemed to be the final straw for the few foolish ones remaining and soon, the air was cleared of the last foul-reeking, badly combed and impolite ruffian, returning to its old tranquility once more.

Satisfied with her work, Shalquoir stepped out of the shadows again and walked up towards the Khajiit. She expertly hid her amusement at their stunned faces and took her sweet time sidling up to them. She let out an innocent purr and it was that sound that broke the tension.

Zaynabi, who had previously been quiet due to the lingering remnants of illness, started laughing loudly. Ahkari, Dro’marash and Kharjo soon followed suit and it wasn’t long before it sounded like the entire camp had descended into a fit of madness. It took several moments before any of them had regained enough composure to speak and even then, the sentences came out with huge gasps for breath.

“That…was one of the greatest things…this one has seen in his lifetime!”

“I did not know men could scream like that!”

“Those big, tough Nords, reduced to little boys fearing monsters under the bed!”

“We should have drawn an audience and charged. We would have been filthy rich!”

Shalquoir could only laugh herself. “Oh, it was all my pleasure. I have not had this much fun since I watched foolish undead light themselves on fire.”

That remark, however obscure, somehow caused the Khajiit to go into another fit of laughter. In the end, it took several drinks and long, deep breaths for everyone to even remotely calm down. When they did, Ahkari turned to the feline.

“This one thanks you, Shalquoir. You have saved us a dangerous mess and given us the most joy we felt since we left Elseweyr. I now look forward even more to traveling with you and see where our adventures take us.”

The cat simply let out another purr as she returned to her lap. It was good to hear that her newfound companions now accepted her as a contributing member of this little caravan. She was certain it would only get better from here.

Then and there, Shalquoir decided she quite liked Skyrim. It was a cold, snowy place but quite exciting. Besides, with eccentric creatures like this, she was bound to come across some thrilling events.

In the past week, she had been sightseeing at an interesting town, eaten for free, lawfully broke into a store and fought off some pirates. It had been the most fun she had in a long time and traveling with a bunch of outlawed minorities would only prove even more exciting. Whatever would happen in this land, she was definitely not going to be bored. 

She settled in for a little catnap on the Khajiit’s lap. She was excited for tomorrow and could only praise her good fortune that Azura had seen fit to send her here. As much as she was certain she would see the Mistress of Dawn and Dusk again, she was more than content with what Mundus had to offer so far. Moonshadow would have to wait for a long while.

“Oh yes, I am certain I shall have a marvelous time here...”


	7. Risen from Coldharbour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Chosen Undead looks back on his trials in both Lordran and Tamriel.

Abandoned by the Gods and the Abyss alike.

That was the only thing that went through his mind as he looked upon the view before him. A landscape that was an utter abomination, beyond what even Seath the Scaleless Dragon could conceive. He thought he had seen the worst of what the world had to offer when he saw New Londo and Oolacile, but those did not compare to the atrocities he was seeing now.

The sky was burning, molten fire squirming up above like a pit filled with snakes. Even so, the air was colder than the bitterest winter, making every breath a daunting, painful task. Rocky chasms spread out before him for miles, occasionally interrupted by twisted ruins from which he could hear soulless screams. Whatever semblance of normal civilization he saw was naught but a twisted caricature. He could see a village with lizard people shrouded in lifeless black and a palace dripping with blood, corpses threatening to come bursting through the woodwork. 

Pure, unfiltered fear took hold of him. He couldn’t be back here. Not here. He had paid the price, won the wager. He had suffered to escape this place and then some. He couldn’t take it. Not again…

Bloodcurdling screams and howls erupted behind him. He whipped around, his eyes going wide. A host of demonic beings descended upon him, immobilizing him with sheer numbers, teeth digging into his flesh as their talons tore him apart.

The man now known as Marcus Renatus jerked awake, with a smothered shout and gasping for breath. He rapidly looked around, his heart nearly leaping out his throat. His blurred vision tried to latch onto anything familiar, anything that didn’t have any traces of his nightmare. It took far too long before he finally recognized the four walls of his own living room and he slumped back onto his chair. He rubbed his temples, willing his hammering heart to slow down again. 

The nightmares were occurring less over time, but that didn’t mean that it got easier on him whenever they did rear their ugly head. He felt like he had lived through a war and had been on the losing end. The fact that he had in fact won his battles and was perfectly safe was of little comfort at such times. 

He got up, walking to the small bedroom in the back of the house. He felt relief to see Lucia was still asleep in her bed at this hour. He and Rhea had adopted the young orphan girl soon after their marriage, feeling the child didn’t deserve to live on the streets and beg for her food. Even though neither of them had initially planned on parenthood, they had adapted well and he always felt an overwhelming urge to make sure his daughter was safe and happy. Sometimes, like now, he even did this for his own wellbeing as well as hers. 

When he had convinced himself everything was in order, he sauntered back to the living room and set himself back onto the chair. He stared into the fire of the cooking pit, letting the heat soothe him. He didn’t like the fact the nightmare had reoccurred or the fact he had fallen asleep at all. He had promised Rhea to stay up and wait for her to return from urgent business at the temple of Kynareth. 

He rose to his feet to get a potato from the pantry as well as his sword, before spearing the food to its tip and heating it above the flame. Not the quickest way to bake it, of course, but it was a nice, quiet activity to pass the time. He meanwhile kept an eye on the door, waiting for his wife to come home.

It took a while before she finally did and when she stood in the doorway, he could tell she was tired. She staggered inside and practically dragged herself onto the chair next to him. She practically collapsed in it with a tired sigh. Without a word, he got up and grabbed some wine from a nearby cabinet and handed it to her. She gratefully took it and as she took several sips, he looked her over. 

“Did you manage? Must be hard trying to work with all the Companions screaming in your ear.”

She nodded. “Breached birth. Don’t worry; mother and baby are both well. She was born the natural way, thankfully, but her position, as well as her size, required our assistance in delivering her. Not surprising, considering who the father is.”

He smirked. He knew both mother and father very well, both from this life and the previous one in Lordran. Thankfully, they had made their peace long ago, easy enough considering the circumstances of their meeting, and he didn’t fear them. He took the bottle from her when she offered it and drank some wine as well. 

“We should visit them soon. Congratulate them.”

She nodded, letting out a yawn. “Later perhaps, when I have caught up on some rest. You should too. You look like you had another nightmare.”

He gave her a wry smile. They really _were_ becoming a married couple. He nodded and told her he had once again dreamed of what happened when he first came here. She comforted him best she could and they shared the rest of the bottle as they talked quietly, before making their way to bed. 

The wine made Rhea sleep easily enough; she had never had a strong stomach for alcohol, after all. He, however, still lay awake and stared up at the ceiling. He wasn’t yet ready to go to sleep. He was still shaken by the nightmare, if only because he knew what he had seen weren’t figments from the darkest recesses of his mind. They were real and he had lived them…

He could not remember how he had died back in Lordran. The last thing he remembered was slaying Gwyn, the Lord of Cinder, but he could not recall whether he linked the First Flame or walked away to let the darkness take hold. All he knew is that at some point, his life ended and this time, it ended for good. 

The next time he had opened his eyes, he had found himself in a lifeless void. It seemed to have no beginning or end, no sound or smell. It had felt like a dark room without walls or floors, claustrophobic despite being infinite. There, he had lingered for an eternity. He had wandered all that time, not able to tell which way was left or right, up or down. At some point, he had been sure he would walk forever, lost in an emptiness that seemingly existed beyond the veil of death.

It had been seemingly out of nowhere that he was suddenly beset by a chilling cold. A writhing yellow light started engulfing the space above him and he swore he could see flames dance in the sky. Below him, a field of jagged rocks and sludge-like ground appeared, sharp like shards of glass. Anguished cries reached him as an icy wind started to blow, a chorus of suffering whose wails were unending.

All around him were shadows. They were the deepest kind of dark and swirled and shifted all around him into inconceivable shapes. He dared not look, for fear of what he would see inside them. What these shadows held was not the unyielding, overwhelming darkness of the Abyss. It was somehow more insidious as if gifted with a devious mind of its own. It didn’t want to overtake. It wanted to inflict suffering.

He heard voices creeping towards him. Distorted and bloodthirsty, they grew louder by the second. The inhuman tongue in which they were spoken caused the hairs on the back of his neck to rise. This feeling only increased when he could sense creatures spawning from those ever-changing shadows. Creatures, he knew then and there, that had no better intentions than the ones he met in Lordran. 

He stood frozen as their footsteps came closer. From the corner of his eye, he could see weapons. Black as ash, streaked with red, matching the faces and armor of those who approached him. As they did, he could still hear them whisper.

He could hear what they said now, though he wished he couldn’t. They taunted him, in threatening voices, that he was lost. That he was now trapped in a place where his suffering would never end. That they were going to tear his soul from his body and his flesh from his bones, only to revive him before he could perish. They whispered gleefully that he was trapped and they would see to it that he was never going to get out again.

Just then, there are had been a sword behind him. It was swung, the metal eager to burrow into his flesh. Yet he had been quicker than its wielder. He ducked and turned his body, charging at the monster behind him. His clamped both hands around the sword, headbutting the being who held it. Not expecting the assault, it let go and in one fell swing, the former undead lobbed its head clean off with his newly acquired weapon.

A brief, uncomfortable silence held sway over the ever increasing mass of beings approaching him. Their black, beady eyes went wide and for the briefest of moments, they stilled. He simply shook the blood off the blade and looked around, issuing neither signs of fear nor provocation, waiting for whatever came next.

He didn’t have to wait long. Soon, a war cry started to swell through the ranks, like a choir filled with tortured, angry souls. Then, they descended upon him from all sides, like the violent, endless crashing of waves upon the shore.

Whatever fear he felt was soon overtaken by his need to survive. He lashed out at his new enemies. He fought like he had fought in Lordran, swift as the wind and deadly as a storm. Who he was fighting against didn’t matter. All that mattered is that he would be the last one standing.

Soon, his weapon and armor were drenched in blood. All around him, his adversaries fell one by one. He quickly became deaf to the endless stream of dying screams, indifferent to the stench of spilled guts that rapidly started to permeate the air. He violently hacked apart any being that even came close, caring about nothing more than his own survival.

By the time silence returned to the world around him, he found himself standing amidst a vast stretch of corpses. A once powerful host had been reduced to a pile of broken bodies and spilled blood. Their black eyes, devoid of pupils, stared into nothingness and color was already draining from their red and black faces.

The former undead could feel his stomach turn at this sight, but he could not muster any remorse. They had attacked him first and something told him that nothing in this strange realm was planning to show him any mercy. If that was so, then he was willing to do the same.

He took his weapon, looking over the warped landscape he found himself in. He fought from shivering at the intense cold and something told him that if he stayed here, it wasn’t just the frigid air that would kill him. He would have to keep moving and find some safe place, wherever that might be.

When he noticed a large building in the distance, his hopes went up ever so slightly. Still holding tight to his weapon, he hurried in its direction. He ignored how the freezing temperatures made his lungs hurt and how it affected his muscles as he tried to move. Nonetheless, he kept pushing on. Even if he had died before, he absolutely didn’t want to die again.

Any hope he might have felt, however, was quickly dashed when he reached the structure. It was a palace, but not any kind that seemed inviting. It seemed smeared with blood and excrement and the smell of decaying meat was everywhere. An ominous, deathly energy seemed to radiate from it, promising anguish to anyone who entered it. 

Every little bit of sensibility in him told him to go back, yet he could feel the cold seep into his very bones by now. He knew he was not going to hold out for very long if he kept roaming the hostile land outside. So, taking a deep breath and praying he would not perish, he approached and slipped inside. 

The inside looked like something out of his darkest nightmares. Every crevice of the interior was filled with deceased flesh. Most of these were humans, but there were also other humanoids he could not recognize. Creatures with strange skin colors, gaunt features and pointy ears, even reptilian and catlike beings. Most of them were decayed beyond recognition and he could tell every single one of them died an incredibly violent death. 

That thought made him tremble even more than the cold outside, but he comforted himself with the fact that the dead couldn’t hurt him. As such, he had settled in a little nook that was thankfully devoid of dead bodies. He had curled up there, hoping to regain some warmth and, when he gathered the strength, perhaps see if this place held something that might be useful to him. 

Alas, he couldn’t think on this long. It soon became clear that not all residents of this place were dead. Rough voices were soon heard behind the walls and he could hear doors swing open. Hideous creatures, more reptilian than man, burst into the room. They raised their hideous heads, sniffed the air and within seconds, hiding in the shadows would help him no longer. 

So he fought once more. Even though his body was aching and his mind screaming, he put every single creature that came near him to the sword. Some of them belched flames at him and he earned himself a few minor burns in the process. Those, along with his tiredness and cuts sustained earlier, were slowing him down considerably, but knowing death was the only alternative, he didn’t stop until this new threat was gone as well.

He was gasping for breath by the time he impaled the last reptilian warrior through the chest. He sank to the ground, leaning against a nearby wall. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, looking over his slain foes as his mind went a million miles per hour. 

What should he do now? Obviously, this place was anything but safe. He should get out of here, but where to? The world outside these walls was just as bad, if not worse. What was this place anyway? It was almost more twisted than Lordran and that thought alone made him frightened to dwell on that question. Wherever he was, he was certain it was some kind of hell. 

“They were weak. How disappointing...”

A sinister voice echoed through the palace halls. It startled the former undead from his thoughts and he looked around. He could see dark energy gather in another corner of the room and another creature soon pulled forth from it. 

It looked even more hideous than all the others. Horned and hoofed, with scales and claws and a hideous face that defied description. A strange, commanding and cruel aura came off him and he could not explain why he felt this being was the driving force behind this unnatural realm.

“So, you have killed my most loyal Daedroth. Not an easy accomplishment. Not many people would dare to defy the Lord of Domination by killing his adherents.” 

He didn’t respond. Something told him it would be very unwise to do so. This being held nothing but contempt for him and he should not provide any information that could give this creature an edge. The silence didn’t go unnoticed by the creature and it showed a toothy sneer.

“I should kill you right now for your impudence. Take away your soul and put you with the rest of my mindless slaves.”

He knew then and there that this was not an idle threat. This being, this…perversion of a god, was probably fully capable of doing so. Still, he refused to give him the satisfaction of a response. By now, he had gone through too much to be truly afraid anyway. Clearly, the creature was none too pleased.

“You show no fear. Interesting… You already know true suffering, don't you? True despair. I can tell. You come from a place where you already faced your death many times…”

Again, there was no anwer and the being grinned. “I am feeling charitable, mortal, so I have a proposition for you. Find your way out of my realm. Defeat all I send on your path and you will earn your freedom. I will restore your body and let you leave to Nirn. Provided you survive…”

The man didn’t even nod, unwilling to truly interact. Not that he needed to. Soon, the energy was back and the creature slithered into a black and purple portal. A growling laugh shook him to his core.

“Good luck…”

Then and there, he was once again left with nothing but corpses for company. Still, the fearful apprehension he had felt before was ebbing away. If the monster had spoken true, there was a place beyond this realm and even a way out. Of course, he might be lying, but at this point that didn’t matter. He had fought hopeless battles before and betted with his life more than once. As such, he was more than willing to take a god up on that wager.

As such, he set about this realm, Colharbour as he soon learned. He ceaselessly battled anything that came upon his path, having no qualms about charging up and slaying everything in his wake. Lordran had hardened him and he refused to feel helpless any longer. He was getting out of this wretched place or die trying.

As such, he braved the perilous realm and anything this Lord of Domination threw at him. He had such a feeling that the god didn’t appreciate his effort. The game became more unfair as he went and beings beyond his wildest night terrors soon found their ways towards him from seemingly every corner of the realm. Monsters, these Daedroth, soulless humans and even deadly necromancers. 

With every slain foe, the suspicion increased that this god didn’t intend to let him go at all. He swore he could hear the deity laugh and taunt him, whispering gleefully how his efforts were futile but admirable. He was simply looking to torture him and, very likely, would not keep his word. After all, what was a human to him but a little ant to burn with a piece of glass?

When he could hear those words inside his head, however, he had fought from grinning. After all, he had fought equally foolish gods with the same limited vision. Those same gods now lay rotting and forgotten and even if he couldn’t slay Molag Bal, he could outsmart him. 

So, rather than killing the necromancers, he had pursued them. He had tracked these so-called Worms all the way to their castle. He had infiltrated it and by using violence and cunning, extracted their methods, secrets lost to any mortal, of restoring a soul to life and, more importantly, restore it in a plane called Nirn, or Mundus. Methods, he realized, that would allow him to leave this world into one inhabitable to humans without assistance of a god that refused to give it.

Obtaining the materials for the ritual was easy enough. A necromancer stronghold provided all the disturbing necessities. He arranged them in the way the scrolls and books told him and despite realizing just how much could go wrong, he set about doing the ritual. Any apprehension he had was overruled by his need to escape and he felt that whatever these arcane arts could do to him, it was better than being at the Lord of Domination’s mercy.

He had never experienced more anguish as when the magic took hold of him. He swore he could feel himself break and rip, as if a new body was tearing its way out of his old one. His screams were loud enough to be heard all through the fortress and he had to fight with all his might not to pass out. The process of restoring himself seemed endless, enough for the mind of a weaker person to shatter, and even he felt extreme relief when the sensations changed to a pulling force that almost seemed otherworldly.

Just then, as he could feel his conscious leaving this place, a thunderous roar caused the building to shake on its foundations. He looked up, startled, and scanned the room. A huge creature, followed by dark shadows, tore its way through the entrance. Even as the energy pulled on him, he could see the Lord of Domination barge into the room.

He could see unbridled fury mark its face. Obviously, he had not expected his new pawn to find his own solution to a Faustian bargain. Both the former undead and the entity realized the latter had been beaten at his own game. Furious at being outplayed, the deity barreled towards him to stop the ritual and worse, but even then the man knew he was too late. As he was finally warped to a different world, he calmly flashed the deity a grin, devilish and defiant. He had defeated a god once more…

Even now, lying in bed next to his wife, those memories gave him some manner of satisfaction. It took a long time for him to even feel that way. Especially since his first year in Tamriel was almost as bad as being trapped in Coldharbour.

He sat up and slipped out from under the covers. He still couldn’t sleep yet and something told him that staying in bed would not induce it. He quietly put on some clothes and made his way to the living room. He sat at the table, lighting a candle and grabbing some of the nearby letters and some books on the adventures of Eslaf Erol, hoping reading would put him to sleep.

He smiled as he opened the first letter and instantly recognized Solaire’s handwriting. Even though his friend lived in a different city, he made it a point to stay in contact either by visits or correspondence. Besides his everyday life and plans for activities together, he would often provide him with new knowledge on his research of the “transcending” phenomenon. In the letter, he spoke of sharing his work with the mages of Winterhold. A few of them had finally started to take him seriously and were eager to at least hear his case and have a look at his research. 

Even now, the idea that his jovial warrior friend was, in his own way, the foremost scholar on an unusual phenomenon never ceased to amuse him. Of all the people whom he had found again in this strange world, it seemed the sunlight warrior had found his niche most easily. He could only hope this for all souls who were cast into this plane and perhaps, with people like Solaire to reach out to them, they would.

Once he had read all the letters, he moved over to the books. Still, he realized the fictional story of a man who was a beggar, thief, warrior and king didn’t much captivate him this night. He was still restless and sleep was likely going to elude him for a long time. Rather than wandering about the house and potentially waking up Rhea and Lucia, he figured it would be better to take his insomnia outside. So, already dressed, he pocketed some warm mead and stepped outside the house to take a walk. 

The streets were all abandoned this time of night, save for other Whiterun guards who had the night shift. His colleagues greeted him happily and were more than willing to stop and chat for a moment in exchange for a few swigs of mead. Even now, he was surprised just how easily they had accepted him into their midst and he was immensely grateful for it. 

He had been inducted into the city guard several months ago now. When he first came to Whiterun, he got by with several small jobs. Secure in Rhea’s acceptance of his marriage proposal, he was determined for them to get a house before tying the knot. From his temporary home in The Bannered Mare inn, he had thrown himself into all kinds of labor to provide his share. One of those had been harvesting crops at the nearby Battle-Born and Pelagia Farm. The work was tedious but paid well and he had been content to do it until a dragon swooped down on the premises.

While everyone else on the farm hid or ran towards Whiterun to alert the guards, the former undead had simply been annoyed. Picking up a nearby axe by lack of a more suitable weapon, he had marched up to the beast and put some of his old skills into play. The battle was long and hard, leaving him with a few sizeable burns, but in the end the beast fell and he could only watch in fascination how it dissolved into a sizable skeleton. He was in the process of wondering how much those bones and other items inside the creature would be worth when the guards of Whiterun came rushing over. Their commander, Caius, looked over the situation quietly, figured out what happened and then, without hesitation, offered him a position on the spot.

Being a city guard in Whiterun suited him just fine. The pay was good and it allowed him to be close to his wife and child. A relatively quiet life suited him well after all his trials in this life and the previous one. Besides, in a city like this one, his job was rarely boring. Judging by the conversations he was currently having with his fellow guards, this was once again proven true. 

“We arrested some peculiar fellow yesterday morning near the Dragonsreach. You really missed something with that one, Marcus.” 

He smiled, watching the bottle go around. “Oh, he put up a fight?”

His fellow guards shook their head. “Well, not that. He was some pale and bald little runt with the biggest nose I’ve ever seen. He tried to have an audience with the Jarl. Said a dangerous man was on his way to Whiterun. Next thing you know, he tried to rob the place. We found all kinds of things that didn’t belong to him on him and hauled him to the dungeon. Claimed he never even took them and began screaming something about Clavicus Vile tricking him. So either he’s some Daedra lickspittle or he’s been hitting the skooma hard.”

The description caught his attention. He knew someone like that once and had very few good memories of him. Part of him didn’t want to believe that this wretched person might actually be here. Skyrim could do without him. Still, he had become knowledgeable enough now to realize it was a possibility. If so, he wanted to be completely certain. 

He got up again and his friends protested as he did. “Where are you going? The evening just got a lot better with you here.”

He showed them another polite smile. “Going up to Dragonsreach. I want to see this odd little man for myself. Keep the bottle. You need it more than I do.”

With those words, he took off as fast as his feet could carry him. He swiftly made his way to the Cloud District and up the stairs to the famed palace. He was grateful to be let in and quickly headed over to the dungeon. As he did, he could already hear a familiar voice echo through the corridor and he fought a groan.

“Let me out! Please! I really don’t know how all that stuff got there. It’s this Clavicus Vile. He brought me here and set me up! You’ve got to believe me!”

The moment the former undead saw the source of the voice, he was certain. The wretched, large-nosed creature was unmistakably the trickster merchant he and Rhea had run afoul of back in Lordran. A rather evil sense of amusement started to stir in him at seeing him behind bars. He walked up, trying his best to keep a smirk off his face.

“Nobody’s going to believe you, Patches. They already didn’t in Lordran and with good reason.”

The pale little man looked up and the expression on his face was priceless. “Y-you! I know you! Please, you’ve got to tell them to let me out! I’m completely innocent!”

The male fought a grin. “You slipped and fell on a lever?”

The glare Patches gave him could kill a small animal where it stood. “I was set up by this fellow. He called himself Clavicus Vile. He claimed he could grant me some kind of wish. Now I was sick of getting things from the dead. Awfully messy and such. So I asked him to have everything I could imagine. He gave me some kind of ring and then he kicked me off a cliff! Can you believe that?”

The former undead clenched his jaws to keep from laughing. He didn’t have much faith in the Aedra and Daedra of this world, but if Patches somehow spoke the truth, this was the most beautiful example of divine justice he had ever heard of. He wisely shut his mouth, however, as the trickster merchant continued rambling. 

“Anyway, turned out the ring did exactly what it promised. Everything I desired appeared right in front of me. So when I came here, I decided to make good use of it. This place sure got my mind running, full of riches and splendor as it is. Turned out then that whatever I desired from the ring was taken from somebody else before it ended up in hands. So here I was, having robbed this place without knowing it! And now I’m here! Please, you’ve got to get me out! Who knows what they’re going to do to me!”

The warrior leaned against the stone wall, still resisting a snicker. “Well, since you committed theft, you will be kept here for a week at most, any stolen goods will be confiscated and then you’ll be booted out of town to go on your merry way. Don’t worry, they don’t execute thieves here or chop off their hands.”

For a moment, Patches stilled. “O…oh… Well, that’s good, I suppose. I-I guess I should sit this one out for now then. I’m sure I’ll live. As opposed to out there… About that man coming to Whiterun…”

By now, the man had heard enough. He moved away from the wall and walked away from the cell. He had just about enough of Patches for one night, or a lifetime for that matter, and was more than content to continue his nightly stroll through Whiterun. Sadly, Patches wasn’t that quick to give up. 

“Oi, don’t go away! I think you should hear this! You know this man too! Lautrec the Embraced! He is coming to Whiterun and he is up to no good!”

As if moved by an outside force, the warrior stopped. He found his head turning and looking back at the man behind the bars. His mouth fell open slightly and he could feel nausea settle into his stomach. 

He remembered Lautrec of Carim. He remembered him all too well. He had put the madman down when he had murdered a Fire Keeper and stole her soul. A crazed murderer killing in the name of a goddess. It was not the kind of person he would like to meet again.

Even so, how likely was the chance for such grave news? Especially if Patches was the messenger. Lying came as naturally to the man as stealing came to a thief. He wasn’t going to take his word for anything.

Patches seemed to notice and his voice took on a nervous edge. “Look, bruv. I know I have not always been very honest with you. But you know I won’t jest about someone like Lautrec. He’s here too and he’s coming. And he’ll cut down anyone in his way. Already tried to do so to me. I barely escaped with my life!”

His already pasty complexion was even paler than before and his movements were shifty. In fact, he almost seemed to tremble. Even now, the former undead wasn’t sure if it was an extremely well-rehearsed act or whether the trickster was genuinely afraid. He couldn’t tell, but he figured inquiring a little further wouldn’t hurt.

“What kind of business would Lautrec possibly have in Whiterun?”

Patches shrugged. “Well, I don’t know exactly. What he said sounded like complete rubbish to me. He was jabbering about some kind of ebony sword here at Dragonsreach. Ebony… What kind of fool would want a wooden sword? But that’s what he said…”

The warrior could feel his body turn rigid. Even if Patches didn’t understand what Lautrec was after, he certainly did. A legendary warrior, a friend of Solaire’s, had talked about this sword during a happy visit in Solitude. An indestructible weapon of betrayal, capable of immense devastation and despair. There was a reason why it had been locked away to be forgotten…

Immediately, he jerked into movement. He ignored Patches still calling after him as he quickly made his way out of the dungeons, quickly grabbing a Dwarven sword from among the confiscated weapons. For the moment, he was willing to trust that the merchant was having one of his rare honest moments. The information he gave was grave enough to take it seriously and if it was true, there was no telling what would happen.

He hurried off, trying his hardest to remember where to go. He raced towards the servant quarters, hoping and praying he would not be too late. He practically jumped the stairs and burst through the door. He looked around the room, only to be met with quiet darkness and the sound of soft snoring. His eyes quickly adjusted to the lack of light and he found himself calming down somewhat. 

The area seemed safe. The people in it were alive and sleeping peacefully. The door to the secret chamber he heard of seemed closed. The man he feared for wasn’t here and he hoped, for once, that it had simply been another bald-faced lie on the part of Patches.

Yet as this thought passed his mind, he could hear footsteps coming down the stairs. Still on high alert, he pressed himself against the wall, allowing the shadows to obscure him. From his position, he observed how a dark figure descended into the room and he could feel his heart standing still. 

The figure that came into the room, a man as evidenced by his build, wore ornate, gilded armor. Elven origin, he knew by now. There was a lingering stench of blood about it that convinced him that it probably didn’t originally belong to the current wearer. Even with the lack of light, he could sense many weapons on his person, ones probably used at some point. Yet what unnerved him most was the man himself. There was a threatening aura about him. An aura he recalled all too well…

Even so, he remained frozen and quietly observed the man. He could see him look around, his invisible eyes drawn towards the particular door. His head then turned towards the sleeping staff and he could hear a dagger being drawn. Then and there, he knew what the man was up to and as a guard who had sworn to protect the people of Whiterun, he wasn’t going to let it happen.

In one swift movement, he stepped away and drew his sword before placing it against the man’s neck. “They do not have to die for a sword, Lautrec.” 

The knight from Carim didn’t respond immediately. He looked over his shoulder, head cocked, and even without seeing his face the former undead could sense distaste. His voice only heightened this.

“Oh, you? You were also spat out into this blasted backwater?”

The warrior didn’t answer and he continued. “So, you also know about the sword? You think you can stop me? I am afraid you will have to go then…”

All the former undead could do was flash him a grin. “I killed you before. I’m quite sure I can do it again.”

A wordless snarl was his response, followed by sudden gasps and candlelight illuminating the room. From the corner of his eye, he saw the commotion had woken up the servants sleeping here. They stared at the two of them in utter, wide-eyed shock. He flashed them a smile, inwardly relieved that they seemingly recognized his face as one of the Whiterun guards, and motioned to the stairs.

“You two go upstairs for a moment and have a drink. I’ll handle this.”

The servants didn’t need to be told twice. They rapidly ran up the stairs to put as much distance between them and the confrontation as possible. The former undead was glad to see them go. He could handle Lautrec much better if there wasn’t any possibility of collateral damage. 

The moment the two civilians were out of the way, he lowered his sword. “The Ebony Blade isn’t here. If that’s what you’re looking for, you’re wasting your time.”

He could feel the devastating look the knight gave him. “You are a poor liar. I know it is here. Mephala said this was its last known location.”

The man simply shook his head and pointed to the door behind them. “Go see for yourself. It used to be behind that door. I won’t stop you.”

Lautrec looked him over distrustfully and for a moment, the warrior was certain he was contemplating to simply kill him on the spot. After a few tense moments, however, he whipped around. The former undead remained where he was as the knight forced the door open and walked through the short hallway to where the sword used to be hidden. 

Within seconds, the knight from Carim came storming back to him. He readied himself, but didn’t draw his weapon yet. An Elven war axe was soon pointed at him and he could hear the man growl behind his helmet. 

“Where is it?”

The warrior answered in his most casual voice. “A warrior came here long ago and took it. It was taken far away from here and thrown into the Soul Cairn, where the souls of those trapped by magic go. It was left there so people like you could never get to it again.”

As he finished his explanation, he could see how the knight started to shake. His hand clutched tighter around the axe. Murder was in the air and the warrior could tell he was in grave danger. Even so, he refused to stand down.

“Leave this city quietly and give up your foolish quest, Lautrec. Mephala is not Fina and holds no love for her subjects. This blade will be the death of you. It’s not worth it. It is easy enough to lose yourself here as it is.”

Barely had he finished his sentence or the knight from Carim lashed out. The former undead could barely jump out of the way as the axe was swung in his direction. This was soon followed by a second identical weapon. In response, he quickly drew his own Dwarven sword and assumed a fighting stance. 

Behind the helmet, he could hear the gnashing of teeth. Pure anger came off the knight in waves. There would be a fight, he was certain of it now. Lautrec wanted to see blood and the deep-sated hate in his voice was audible.

“What would you know of losing yourself? You fancy yourself a hero. A protector of the weak. You have never been ripped from your purpose and forced to wander a strange world directionless and in despair. You cannot know just how wretched such things can make a man feel.”

The warrior couldn’t contain a wry chuckle at that accusation as he waited for his opponent to strike. “You truly know nothing about me.”

If only Lautrec could see how true those words were. He might have escaped the worst when he managed to escape Coldharbour, but his first year in Tamriel was no less of a nightmare. In fact, he had been as afraid and aimless as he had been when he faced the threat of hollowing. 

He had woken up in front of a strange altar in a rundown house, but he had not been alone. Two horrific creatures, vampires he later found out, were hiding in there. Their glowing eyes had unnerved him and he had known then and there that they had considered him their prey. He had done his best to fight them off, but being naked and disorientated, it had been nigh impossible. 

By the time he managed to escape the house, he had been bleeding from multiple bite marks and drained to the point he could barely stand on his legs. He had dragged himself into the city streets, stumbling over his own feet as he tried to get to safety. The creatures did not seem to follow him into the sunlight and on all sides of him, he could hear people screaming as his bloodied visage. It wasn’t long before the guards were called and the sight of the screaming warriors, armed to the teeth, had filled him with fear. 

He had fled out the city gates, running as fast as he could. He had quickly made for the hills and sought shelter in a small cave with a stream coming out of it. There, he had washed off the blood, cleaned his wounds and found some simple clothes and weaponry in sunken chests hidden under the water. He had dined on the fresh salmon swimming in the stream and rested for a while, hoping to travel to some friendlier place once he felt better. 

That thought, however, had been wishful thinking. Over the next few days, he only seemed to feel worse. Whenever he traveled during the day, he felt incredibly weak and sunlight seemed to burn his skin. Cold barely seemed to bother him and fire hurt even from a distance. Food and drink started to taste dull and lost their ability to sate him, his senses became more acute and his skin grew increasingly pale. Every day his features started to regress into something more bestial, to the point he dreaded seeing his own reflection in the water. Yet what frightened him the most was the insistent raging of an insatiable hunger that had nothing to do with eating.

Even now, he still had nightmares about the first time he drank blood. He had been wandering through the Reach, looking for shelter, when he had been beset by the people known as the Foresworn. He had been suffering from his condition for a week at that point and hunger occupied his mind every moment of the day. When the ambush commenced, everything turned to a haze.

He could still recall how the blood of those unfortunate Reachmen tasted. It had been like consuming humanity, only sweeter and more thrilling. For the first time, the hunger ceased, or was at least subdued, and he almost felt alive again. By the time he came to his senses again, his would-be opponents were dead and any sense of satisfaction was swiftly replaced by guilt and horror. 

That first feeding defined his life for the next year. He would roam from place to place, trying to make money with small jobs and taking shelter in caves and ruins. The hunger followed him wherever he went, always insisting on a next feeding. It would eat away at his features if he tried to resist it for too long, showing him for the abomination he was, but he couldn’t bring himself to feed off the blood of innocents. He would try to limit it to troublemakers, criminals and monsters, while still being careful not to kill. He would leave when people started to catch on to his true nature and always fought to stay ahead of the Vigilants of Stendarr that were sent to kill him.

It had been an unbearably harsh life, full of fear, danger and uncertainty. He tried many times to cure his affliction. He obtained potions, prayed at shrines and attempted many a dark ritual short of sacrifice. None of those proved successful, however, and with every night passing he became more disheartened. A few times, he had attempted to end his miserable existence, but his affliction and his experiences in Lordran had made his body resilient. In the end, he had seen no other choice but to stow away in a mine and stay there, either until he found a cure or until the cruel gods of this world finally saw fit to end him.

Still, it had seemed that fate had other plans. He had been certain he was dreaming when he saw Rhea’s face again. It had to be a cruel prank, brought on by his condition. His lover, whom he had to put out of her misery with his own hands when she hollowed, couldn’t be alive. Still, the fact that he could touch her and she spoke to him like she always did proved the contrary. She had not been horrified by his monstrous appearance at all. In fact, she had provided him with the answer; the way to cure him of his state. 

The journey to Morthal had been treacherous but well worth it. The man she had mentioned, Falion, proved willing to help him and with a filled black soul gem in hand, they had proceeded to a ritual stone circle at dawn. Standing there, with the sun’s first rays searing him, had been agonizing and a few times, he feared passing out. It had taken all his strength to stay conscious throughout it all, but nothing could describe the sense of relief he felt when the blood-hungry disease left his body. 

Even now, he recalled the thrill of being able to breathe. All his senses felt clear and the urge to feed was gone. The sunlight no longer burned him and he was even glad to feel the cold once more. He had thanked Falion profusely and after spending some money on the first real meal he’d had in a year, he had commenced the journey back to Whiterun, to Rhea and a new, better life.

He grimaced at all these memories flooding back. Lautrec had no idea what he had gone through coming here. The sick murderer only cared for himself, senselessly chasing his perceived destiny while only bringing destruction. It’s what he always did and as before, he refused to be among the victims.

The knight of Carim struck swiftly and ruthlessly. The former undead only moved just in time to block. He pushed the man back and charged, raining devastating blows on him as he tried to drive him into a corner. He wasn’t planning to back down on his earlier threat. He would kill him a second time if he had to.

Lautrec fought back fiercely. He used his dual wielding to the best of his abilities, often trying to block his attacks with one axe while trying to swing at him with his free one. The warrior sometimes barely avoided his rapid attacks and after a while, he decided to play dirty as well, using his free arm to punch his opponent and stagger him.

For the next few minutes, all that could he heard was the sound of weapons clashing. Both men struck and dodged, blocked and slashed in an attempt to incapacitate the other. Each movement was guided by anger and a fierce desire to protect the things they stood for. Lautrec fought to carry out his divinely inspired destiny, folly or no. As always, the former undead fought to stay alive and protect those he cared for.

The warrior didn’t back down. Doing his best to avoid his enemy’s swings, he danced around him and looked for weak spots. He ducked under the other man’s swings, slicing and slashing at him. Every now and then, he drew blood and as he advanced ever forward, one thing occurred to him specifically.

Lautrec fought like an animal, but not with his usual skill and poise. He wasn’t a natural with the axes and not used to weapons that swung much slower than his curved blades. The warrior saw how his arms were getting heavy and heard how his breathing strained. He was out of his depth and quickly becoming tired with only rage to push him forward.

The former undead soon gained the upper hand. As the knight of Carim swung at him once more, he dodged before flanking him. He slammed the hilt of his blade into his face and as he stumbled, he kept swinging his weapon in his direction. He struck Lautrec, again and again, cutting away at him and his armor without mercy. 

Finally, the assault became too much and he watched how the knight sank to his knees. He tried to support himself on his hands, fighting in vain to get up. The warrior wouldn’t let him. He kicked away the axes before punching him square in the face. The defeated man hit the ground with a painful thud and a loud groan, but right now the former undead couldn’t care less as he placed a boot on his head, putting his sword at his neck.

He should kill him. He had done it before. Besides, the world would be better off without someone as deranged as Lautrec anyway. There was no reason why he shouldn’t just finish off the knight right now. 

Still, he looked at how calm and serene the man was and found himself unable to do it. He thought back to what his foe said before. About living a life without purpose and the obvious fear and desolation behind his words. Then and there, he truly realized that Lautrec was a lost man, with only a hopeless goal to keep him together. A man that was all too willing to die rather than face being without his goddess and trapped in the claws of a more fickle one.

The warrior raised his sword again and threw it aside. He glared at the man at his feet and for the first time, it hit him just how truly pathetic he was. Killing him would be too easy…

Then and there, he made his decision. He reached out and grabbed the beaten knight. He pulled him to his feet and then proceeded to drag him up the stairs and out of Dragonsreach. He didn’t stop until he made it all the way past the Plains District and out the city gates. There, he released the man and watched how he fell down onto the ground. 

He walked towards him as he tried to scramble up. “Castle Volkihar is northwest from here in the Sea of Ghosts. The portal to the Soul Cairn is there, provided you get past the vampires.”

Lautrec didn’t answer him. Even behind his helmet, he could feel how puzzled the man was. Clearly he had not expected to walk away from this encounter alive and the former undead could feel how the knight tried to assess him. He glared at him, crossing his arms.

“Don’t mistake this for an act of mercy, Lautrec. If you show your face here in Whiterun again, I _will_ take your life. But what you’re looking for will lead you to worse things than even I can come up with and I am fed up with senseless fighting. Pursue your goals, even if they’re foolish.”

All the knight from Carim did was staring at him in silence. Everything about him told him he took his threat seriously. Still, the warrior felt no hostility coming off him. He quietly rose to his feet and when he spoke, his voice betrayed a resigned calmness and something almost akin to gratitude, but not quite. 

“Then we have no further business. All I can say is that it is a meager life you have chosen for yourself in this miserable place.”

This half-hearted attempt at an insult barely had any effect on the former undead and he grinned. “To each their own, knight of Carim. Not all of us wish to be pawns for the gods. Let us hope we never meet again, in this life or the next.”

He could feel a dark leer coming from behind the man’s helmet. “That I wholeheartedly agree on. Farewell.”

With that last irreverent greeting, he turned around and began to walk. The warrior watched him go, noting how he still limped from the wounds sustained during their fight. He looked pitiable, even in that splendid gilded Elven armor, and his pride and conviction seemed irreversibly snapped.

He wondered then and there how long the knight would survive out here, in this hostile land full of strange monsters and capricious deities. This world could be intensely cruel to those who transcended from Lordran and he knew this firsthand. To blindly trust them meant death and something told him this might be Lautrec’s fate if he continued down his path.

He briefly felt pity, but not for long. He knew the knight would have despised it and deemed it unnecessary. Perhaps it was. There was no point to weep for the foolish. Lautrec had chosen his own fate and he had chosen his, as convicted in his choices as the sinner of Carim was.

That thought, the reality of his current situation, caused him to turn back to the city again. His feet moved of their own accord, carrying him back towards the gate and homewards. The night’s events had finally tired him out and he desperately longed to be back home in the Wind District, in bed beside his wife. 

The fire pit was still burning when he entered. His first stop was Lucia’s room and he was once again relieved to find she was safe and vast asleep. He quietly made his way over to the bedchamber and undressed again. He slipped back into bed beside Rhea, doing his best not to wake her. She didn’t need to be bothered with the night’s events just now. He would tell her in the morning and something told him the part with Patches in particular would amuse her greatly.

He smiled as he looked her over. She was beautiful as she lay there asleep, her dark blond hair a mess and her chest slowly going up and down with each breath. She looked so peaceful and content, a far cry from the frightened and frail woman he once knew. She was happy and alive once more and, here at her side, so was he.

“You are back from your walk, Marcus?”

Rhea’s soft voice pulled him from his reverie. He looked over and found she had opened her eyes. He felt a little pang of guilt at having apparently awakened her, but she cut off any apology he planned to give her. She kissed him, looking him over with concern. Rhea knew him too well by now. He couldn’t keep a secret from her and honestly, he was glad he never had to. 

“I still couldn’t sleep. Everything’s fine now though. I’m not going anywhere anymore.”

She smiled, running a hand over his chest. “Good.”

He returned her affection as she pressed herself against him. He ran his hands across her naked body, reveling in her nearness. For a moment, the night’s events were completely forgotten and contemplation gave way to passion and desire.

He was happy, he decided. This relatively mundane life, without grand purpose, suited him. In this strange place with the love of his life crying out his name in pleasure, he was home. 

Perhaps, he realized, this was indeed a disappointing ending to his tale. He was the Chosen Undead and now he lived as a mere guard in Whiterun, husband to a priestess of Kynareth and father to an adopted daughter. It was hardly the kind of thing people wrote songs and poems about, but he found he didn’t care in the slightest. 

Not everyone chose adventure. He certainly didn’t. It was thrust upon him and the only reason he ever undertook his quests was for the simple need to survive. It wasn’t glorious or glamorous, fun or exciting. It had been a waking nightmare, a quagmire of hopelessness and futility. Even if it made for a great tragedy in the form of a book or play, he would not wish living it upon anybody.

The life he led now was simple. It was a far cry from the splendid ruins of Anor Londo he trudged through or the luxurious manse that Rhea grew up in. Yet what they had was their own and most importantly, they had each other. They could live a life together in relative safety and security and after all he’d gone through, he valued that more than a heroic legacy. 

He’d had enough adventure for a lifetime. He had been a hollow without a history of identity, an undead in a false prophecy, he had killed gods and kings and changed an era. He had then braved and risen from Coldharbour and survived the darkest nights of a strange new world. Lautrec and other hopefuls could chase a grand purpose all they wanted; he was at a place where he was content and treasured the peace he knew so few would ever find in life.


	8. Hail Sithis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucatiel finds a reason to keep on living.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For these next three chapters, I owe a massive "thank you" to AO3 member Ketch117. I wasn't planning to write any more chapters, especially not on Dark Souls II as it is my least favorite Soulsborne game and I wasn't sure I could do it justice. This wonderful user gave my all these amazing ideas that made me willing to give it a go. So, this member deserves a mention here for helping me out so much.

Acceptance.

Finally, Lucatiel of Mirrah had attained that state. She had resigned to her fate, to the reality she was indeed becoming a Hollow. That in the end, all her memories would fade and she would lose herself, before inevitably embracing death.

That is what she told herself, at least. As she sat there outside of Aldia’s Keep, she braced herself for the inescapable. There was no way to go back home now and the Curse would likely never cease. There was nothing anymore. Her knighthood, her brother, her sense of self... All of it had slipped through her fingers like sand through a sieve. And she accepted it.

She had suffered enough by now. From the harsh poor life she grew up in to her scars on the battlefield. From the disappearance of her brother to her becoming victim of the Undead Curse. She had never known anything but hardship and now, the weight of her trials was finally crushing her.

So she stayed, hiding in a shed, tired and no longer able to search. How ironic, that her task of finding her brother was what broke her rather than healed her. No matter how she searched, she had not been able to find him. Now, she knew she never would. 

He had likely already succumbed to the Undead Curse, mindlessly preying upon other for humanity. Her beloved older brother Aslatiel, the finest swordsman she ever knew and her closest companion, was now gone. He had likely already disappeared in the mass of Hollows that took over these lands. That thought was what finally made her undone, yet it also gave her a sense of peace.

She had managed to stay alive and sane this long. She had fought and persevered and triumphed. She had helped her fellow undead strive for survival, made a chance however small. Those were not bad achievements before one would pass.

There was a certain comfort in the certainty of her fate. She was exhausted now. Exhausted of fighting. Exhausted of searching. Exhausted of being afraid and of shedding tears. Yet most of all, she was exhausted of trying to remember when it became harder every day and when it would all end up being for nothing. There was no point to struggle any longer. She was ready to go.

She was ready to forget.

She sat, leaning against the wall. One of her hands reached up to her mask and took it off. Her fingers slid across the blemish on her face, the mark of her shameful Curse, and she swore she could feel it spread. It spread like wildfire, now that she no longer fought to hold it back. It was time and she finally let her thoughts scatter to the wind.

There was a certain comfort in feeling the mind fade. In the complete emptiness that overtook when there was no longer any resistance. The memories, bitter and tearful, slipped away piece by piece. There were no worried, no anger, no pain… She closed her eyes, a sigh of relief leaving her lips.

There was simply calm quiet now, endless silence followed by an endless dark. 

Darkness. Oh, how endless it was. She was drowning in it, overtaken by it. It flowed all around and against her. It was silent, but seemed to contain a sense of isolation, a promise of rest. Infinite and yet feeling small, like the safe feeling of being back in the womb. 

She reveled in it, welcoming the change from the endless strife she had faced before. There was no self here, no ego or instinct to cause a maelstrom in the mind. Here, there was pure, unaltered tranquility. It burrowed into every sense of her being, until she was certain she herself was naught but dark.

Suddenly, the whispers started. 

Words were said, but she never once heard a voice. It was more like a force, an all-encompassing entity that swirled and twisted, inhabiting every speck of nothingness she was engulfed in. It spoke without truly speaking, etching words into her mind as its presence seemed to seep into her being.

It told her it carried many names. Sithis. Akel. SITHISIT. Psijii. The Dread-Father. It had no form or gender, being birthed from the primal force of Padomay. He and his counterpart Anui-El, born from Anu, balanced each other to form the core of all existence and what she saw now was its domain, its sense of perfection.

Suddenly, she realized, the darkness didn’t feel so peaceful anymore. As she became one with it, able to perceive its message, she saw the true nature of that she was residing in. This was not a place of rest. This was the grave of all of creation.

This dark was not the threat of stagnancy from back home or the ever-mutating devouring dark from the Abyss. This was a graveyard of chaos, of evil and pain and suffering. This darkness was the cumulative effort of all these rotten things and it was where they would eventually lead. 

An endless nothing, the entity told her. That was its goal. To spread chaos and the misery it caused and then watch all that existed collapse because of it. That way, the world would return to the emptiness it once was.

This, it told her, was as it should be. Creation was a nuisance, defiling the perfect nothing. All the pests, plagued and cruelty it reaped was a tool, the poison needed to exterminate the pests. It was no different than killing rats or cockroaches and the end result would be just as pleasing.

She should understand, of all people. As invisible tongues lapped at her flesh, the entity claimed it could taste bitterness. It stated that she had lived a hard life, full of suffering. That she had felt loss and grief, from the day she first opened her eyes. It reminded her of the despair and shame, the horror and unfairness she coped with. She knew full well what it was like to suffer and as such, she knew the importance of changing this.

Lucatiel could only listen and the body she barely even felt anymore started trembling. Something stirred inside of her, an odd feeling that had abandoned her when she started to hollow. It shook her out of her complacency and she heeded the words of the being with utter attention.

If anything, they grew more ominous the longer she listened. The entity had turned its attention to her. It beckoned her to go inside it, become one with it. To let go off her own body and unite with infinity, bestow him her remaining energy to feed the primal emptiness. It offered her to finally rest, to fulfill its wish and hers as well.

It told her to surrender to the void. 

To surrender…

Suddenly, something jolted inside of Lucatiel’s body. A body she was all of a sudden aware she still had. There was still something inside that husk of decaying flesh and dried up blood. That something, whatever it was, started screaming at her, louder than the soundless words of Sithis ever could.

She didn’t want to surrender. The force insisted she didn’t. Despite what she told herself earlier, she was not willing to let go of everything. She didn’t want to give up her withered body to become one with the void. She wanted to…live.

Live… How odd did that seem, when she wasn’t even certain she was alive anymore. When she didn’t even remember who she was. She was literally nothing but a shell and yet, her muscles started to strain and adrenaline seeped into her veins. A deeply engrained instinct called to her, whispering to her a faint sliver of hope that there might be something beyond the dark.

Bowing to Sithis would not give her peace. Not anymore. There was still a need there. A base, primal need for self-preservation. A need for the preservation of self. The self…

Then and there, Lucatiel knew. She knew she wasn’t yet completely lost to the Curse, not damned to the dark…and perhaps she would never be. Even without the mind, the body still wanted to live. And as long as the body wished to be preserved, she had not yet lost herself entirely. Her mouth opened to speak and the sound of her own voice both frightened and toughened her.

“No... Never…”

Just like that, strength returned to her body. With all her might, she started to struggle against the blackness. She forced it from her mind, separating herself from the endless sea surrounding her. Her heart and soul fought to free themselves from melding with the void and the more she resisted, the stronger her resolve grew.

Something emerged as she battled against her bonds. Something she thought lost when she hollowed and gave in to dark. It pulled itself to the front and center of her mind, returning the fire to her burned out soul. A single memory, but it was enough. 

“I’m Lucatiel of Mirrah! And I am nobody’s pawn!”

Immediately, there seemed to be a shift in the void. The eerie sense of calmness vanished like chaff on the wind, replaced by something more openly malignant. The change turned her blood to icicles. What once seemed so safe was now quickly turning perilous.

Yet she knew she had gone too far to reconsider. She separated herself from the black, staring down the shapeless being with rage. Her hands balled into fists and she opened her mouth to scream.

“Let me go! Let me be, you foul wretch! I won’t yield to you! I will _never_ yield to you! You are nothing! And I will not bow to the likes of you!”

She could feel the entity rumble and shift, but she nevertheless continued. She screamed and shouted at it, her anger increasing the longer she went. She screamed until her voice started to give out. With her will alone, she attempted to push the darkness back and in turn, the darkness grew ever more enraged.

Within seconds, it was upon her. Churning and raging like the cruel seas surrounding Mirrah, the black rushed towards her. It fought to take by force what it could not take by enticement, but as her mind no longer allowed it in, it grew ever more furious as it etched its words into her psyche.

It cursed her, damned her. It called her a pathetic instinct crawling in the muck, hopelessly looking for meaning in a world that didn’t have any. It laughed in the face of her defiance, telling her she was a fool for even thinking she could escape the void.

She would learn soon, it warned her. She would learn the error of trying to defy the endless void, of thinking she could oppose chaos itself. It would devour her and tear her apart, but to do so immediately would be far too kind.

Out of nowhere, a crawling sensation brewed underneath her skin. She screeched as her flesh started to shift and swell and her soul writhed inside her chest. Her hollowed form felt like it was being torn apart, elevated from its pitiful state in the worst, most painful way imaginable, all while the creature spoke without voice.

It would not simply kill her. A sacrifice had to be made. Something had to be done to appease it, to make her pay for her insolence. In order for that to happen, adjustments had to be made. He would alter the pathetic husk she was in and send her to those loyal to him as an offering, just so she was alive and aware when they took the light from her eyes.

It wasn’t just about increasing the void. It wanted to do so through utter misery. It would ensure she would suffer. 

With that ominous warning, Lucatiel found herself falling. The unchanging darkness had suddenly changed into a deep, bottomless chasm that pulled her down with merciless force. The void was rejecting her and casting her down into whatever existed that could be worse than this.

Screaming in vain, she anticipated that at any moment, her bones would snap and her organs would shatter, but her freefall seemed endless. There was nothing but black and gravity as she plunged ever further into oblivion, soon because violently ill the longer she kept her eternal fall. In the end, she lost consciousness entirely and amidst her fear and sorrow, the last thing going through her mind that if she would land, at least she was spared the horror of her own death.

Her death, however, never came. After an infinite period of being unconscious, Lucatiel found herself opening her eyes. The process was an arduous one, as every muscle in her body was awash with agony. She was in pain, tired, dehydrated, hungry and feeling violently ill all at once. The hard surface she was lying on barely registered to her as she couldn’t even think of moving.

Mad shivers wracked her body as she lay there, not daring to move even an inch for fear of what would happen. She felt weak and worn, as if she has crawled through though an inferno and across a battlefield. What was worse, her mind, previously nothing but a vast and empty expanse, was now invaded by thoughts. 

As terrifying as her meeting with Sithis had been, her psyche had been at ease. Now, it was teeming with activity. Thoughts, ideas, _memories_. It all came back to her much faster than she could process and the sheer volume left her reeling.

She remembered Mirrah. She remembered her parents and her brother. She recalled joining the army and all the glorious battles she had fought. She recalled it all. The happiness, the triumph, the times she laughed and cried and felt anger. She felt it all as if for the first time. Yet most of all, just recalling it overwhelmed her with grief.

On instinct she curled into a ball. Why? Why did she have to remember? Why could her mind suddenly recall all the suffering that had reduced her to a Hollow? Why was something she initially wanted so badly becoming so painful? It broke her, more than she ever imagined it could. If the entity wanted to make her suffer, it was definitely succeeding.

She didn’t get to grief long. Out of nowhere, there were voices and rough hands grabbed her from all sides. She cried out, only now realizing that she was unclothed and tried to struggle in an effort to free herself. She was pulled into a sitting position and her unfocused eyes frantically tried to see what was going on.

“We have an intruder!”

“How did she get in here? We were watching the door!”

“It is a spy! Mede’s hounds sent her! I know it!”

By now, Lucatiel’s fear and panic started to increase rapidly. All around her were people dressed in red and black robes. Their weapons were drawn and in their eyes, she could see a mix of confusion, anger and bloodlust. The things they shouted were unfamiliar to her, but she was too tired to point it out and she doubted it would do much if she did. So instead, she tried to conserve her energy and figure out where on earth she was. 

She could see she was in some kind of den, as there was a notable lack of windows. A hideout perhaps, probably of some kind of people of ill repute. The way these people were dressed would certainly suggest the latter. She quickly glanced over her shoulder to gather more details, only to freeze in fear.

Behind her was what looked like a picture in stained glass, quite like the cathedrals she had seen in Drangleic. Yet this picture lacked any of the comfort such splendor had usually provided to her. The image depicted of a skulled creature bathing in blood and bones, while beautiful, was frightening. It radiated a malevolent energy, as if it sucked the light out of the room. In fact, it reminded her all too much of her time in the void.

The void… That thought made her shudder all over again. Just who on earth were these people?

“Silence!”

A shrill, unpleasant voice hushed everyone in the room and Lucatiel’s head instantly whipped in its direction. A small, unassuming man in what looked like a jester outfit was regarding the group. It was clear the others respected them, as they instantly fell silent and regarded him with their full attention.

In any other setting, his appearance would have been comical, but the warrior from Mirrah knew better. There was a feverous, nasty glint in his eyes, one that betrayed sadism and cruelty. When he spoke, she felt her dread only increase.

“Why can you not see? Cicero does! Cicero always does! This woman brings good tidings. Her soul will be what we need to make the Dark Brotherhood great once more!” 

“Sithis has brought us an offering. He wishes us to return this soul to him, through death and suffering, honoring him and our dearest Night Mother. Let us do what he commands, so we might prosper again!”

As he spoke, Lucatiel could feel a change wash over the ones that restrained her. The confusion felt earlier was swiftly shifting to murderous certainty. Soon, a chanting swelled through the ranks, fueled by fervor and bloodlust. 

“Kill her! Kill her to please the Dread-Father!”

“Make her scream before she enters the void!”

“The sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear!”

“Hail Sithis! Hail Sithis!”

As the chants grew ever louder and people pulled at her from all sides, blind fear struck her. Pure and raw, coursing through her veins and filling her with despair. Fear of being murdered. Fear of being tortured. Fear of dying once more and being sent back to that dreadful void.

She had not felt such fear as when her hollowing began. Yet, unlike before, she found it did not paralyze her this time. Not in the slightest. In fact, it made her feel alive. 

If she could feel fear, it meant she still had a sense of self. If she wanted to preserve her life, there was enough left of her to keep on living. And right now, she wanted nothing more than to do so. She was Lucatiel, a proud swordswoman of the Order. She was a Knight of Mirrah and she was going to fight.

Her eyes shifted to the person behind her holding her arms, attracted to an item on the hip of one of the people restraining her. A dagger, she realized. A weapon. A way to defend herself in her helpless state. She stole a quick look at the frantic crowd. It was now or ever…

Straining her muscles, she rapidly reached out. Her fingers clutched around the dagger’s handle and she found herself facing dark shining metal. The cool, carved leather felt soothing in her grip and with a renewed lust to fight, she plunged it into the nearest flesh she could find.

Her victim screamed and she could feel a pair of hands letting go off her. She could feel hot blood gush across her hand and she pulled the knife back only to strike again. She started to slash all around her with her now free hand, indiscriminately attacking every person clad in red and black near her. 

Within moments, she found she could move freely. She scrambled up, still tightly holding her weapon. Her mind racing, she looked around, trying to assess her situation.

The cloaked creatures that had previously been so eager to hurt her had now put distance between themselves and her. Several of them had drawn their weapons and regarded her hesitantly. Others came to the aid of their wounded comrades, shouting for a healer and cursing her. Panic started to overtake the room and for a few brief moments, both parties were at an impasse.

This fragile peace didn’t last long. Soon, the shrieking of the little jester cut through the air and she turned her head in his direction. He was jumping up and down, flailing his arms and running about like a headless chicken.

“Kill her! Kill the wench! Sithis commands it!”

He was shouting his head off, quickly gaining the attention of the others. As annoying as the sound was, it seemed to work. The assassins that weren’t wounded were quickly closing ranks, having clearly made the decision to take her down first. She huffed, not caring she was naked and vulnerable, having already made hers.

“I will not die in this wretched place!”

With those words, she furiously descended onto her enemies. They readied themselves to defend, clearly hoping to find strength in numbers. She almost smirked at this. She had no doubt that these people knew how to kill, but she strongly doubted they had the skill of a knight.

Like a lioness pouncing on her prey, she tore into them. She stabbed chests, slit throats and slashed off limbs, determined to finish off all her attackers. Like a graceful dancer of death, she weaved and forced her way through her opponents. They were good fighters, but they fought like solitary hunters used to unsuspecting targets and she exploited that weakness happily. 

She barely noticed any cuts and hits on her own body, ferociously battling for her life while taking theirs. Any pain she felt simply drove her forward, determined to vanquish her foes and see the next day. She could smell and taste blood, hear the dying screams. It mattered little to her. She wanted to get out of here and to do so, she gladly turned her weapon onto these rotten people.

So she killed. Quickly and mercilessly and without second thought. Her blade was hungry for flesh, her mind never more focused. She cut her enemies down one by one and when she got her hands on an actual sword off one of her fallen opponents, there was no stopping her. She was going to be victorious.

One by one, her adversaries fell. Their lifeless bodies hit the floor. Their screams turned to death rattles. Soon, eerie silence returned to the space as she ran her sword through the last of them, watching without emotion how they sank to the floor in puddles of their own blood. She looked across the corpses of her enemies to make sure she got all of them, only to find herself distracted by a blur on her right.

The mad jester ran up to her carrying a dagger. He raised it as he lunged at her, his face contorted into an inhuman sneer. The words he shrieked dripped with bloodlust were followed by mad laughter.

“Cicero will kill you! For dearest Mother!”

Lucatiel didn’t hesitate. Gripping her sword tightly, she spun around and thrust her weapon forward. It struck her target swift and true and the only sound that echoed through the sanctuary was the clang of a dagger onto the stone floor.

The man was impaled through the chest and she easily lifted him off the ground. He bled and squirmed like a stuck pig, hands feebly clawing at the metal as his life slowly ebbed away. Amidst gasps and coughed of blood, he glared at her and tried to speak even though the air quickly left his lungs.

“Curse you… Curse you, you wench… May you incur the wrath of Sithis…”

The Knightess simply looked back at him, her voice cold and unfeeling. “Go meet your master in the void yourself.”

With that, she shook the dying body off her blade and watched it crumple onto the floor. She quickly scanned the environment, making sure there was absolutely no one left to attack her. The surrounding quiet and the motionless of the bodies reassured her somewhat and as time passed, it gradually sank in that she was indeed safe. 

As soon as that realization hit her, something changed within her. The strength, determination and indifference that got her through this was now depleted and the aftermath was kicking in. She sank to her knees, not even bothering to try and fight gravity. 

Only now, her naked body started to shiver madly at the cold. Countless cuts and bruises on her body stung viciously. The smell of blood and dead filled her nostrils and she found herself regarding the faces of the deceased, looks of terror frozen on their faces. She felt like she was going to be sick, but soon another thing entirely took priority.

Get out of here.

That need had her trying to move. It wasn’t easy. Her legs felt like wet paper and her knees buckled. Her lungs were burning, her body mad with thirst from her exertion, and the sight and smell of blood upon her made her gag. It seemed like a near impossible task to get up and it took all of her will to do so.

Forcing herself to balance her body, she looked around the sanctuary and started to gather anything useful she could find. Clothes, gold, weapons... She also took some potions, once she took an experimental sip and realized they had the same effect as an Estus Flask. She quickly wiped the blood off her with a moist rag, put on the armor and, without wasting time, she started looking for the exit. 

The entrance to this horrific burrow was easily found. She pushed against the heavy stone door and slinked out into the world beyond. A cold gust of wind bit into her face and small snowflakes flitted past her eyes. The Knightess found herself looking about a landscape of snow. Yet most importantly, she found herself looking upon water.

Water…

A happy gasp tore from her mouth. She staggered over to the water and fell to her knees. She scooped a small amount into her hands, waiting for a moment so it would warm, and then greedily drank it. She repeated this process a few more times, grateful to feel her thirst diminish. 

The taste of the water was heavenly. Same for the snow and the wind, almost. This place simply felt so alive after having been trapped in the void. Wherever she was it was so good to be in a world that was pulsing, alive. For a moment, she couldn’t bear to move, content to simply take it all in. Yet as she sat there on her knees, slowly allowing her senses to acclimate, something caught her eye that had her become petrified in shock. 

In the water was her reflection, but it was not how she remembered it. She was looking into two familiar, lively blue eyes and her skin was smooth and pink. Her face looked exactly like how she remembered it, without even a hint of hollowing. In fact, it appeared as if it had never even happened…

Sheer confusion overtook her. How could this be? How could she suddenly look like her old self again? 

What was happening to her? Had anything really happened to her? She remembered Mirrah. She remembered her face becoming disfigured as she hollowed. She recalled her mind slowly deteriorating. Her mind… Was that perhaps what was happening now? Was her mind still playing tricks on her, even now? Were the void and perhaps this landscape filled with snow a dying illusion before her mind was truly gone?

She was tempted to think that, had it not been for the snowflakes settling in her hair and the wind chilling her bones. Those felt real enough. So did the cold water nipping at her fingers. The air she breathed was fresh and vibrant and a short distance away, she could spy the glistening scales of fish as they swam through the water. No, this place seemed far too lively to be a mere fever dream.

Yet then, where was she?

She got up and stood there for a moment, listening quietly. In the distance, she could hear noises. Actual noises. The sound of ships gliding across the water. The sound of sailors shouting orders. Dockworkers shuffling about. People talking and running. Signs of life... They were strangely comforting to hear after all she’d been through.

Instantly, she was compelled to move. She started to jog in the direction of the sounds, the snow creaking against her boots as she did. She moved as fast as her tired legs could carry her and after following the coastline, she saw the most beautiful image before her that she laid her eyes upon since Mirrah.

“A town... Oh, thank the Gods…”

A tired smile appeared onto her face as she continued to set one foot in front of the other. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to get to civilization, filled with normal human beings. A frightened little corner of her mind told her this might just be another illusion, but she barely listened to it. She moved as fast as she could, having decided that this backwater fishing town was the best place to be for her.

That hopeful thought was apparently not in vain. The village didn’t change as she walked into it and neither did the people. They cast her a few curious glances, but otherwise minded their own business. She didn’t mind at all, simply happy to see a lack of preying Hollows for once. 

It didn’t take long for her to find a building with the traditional sign of an inn. Without thinking twice, she stepped inside. Instantly, she was greeted by the blissful warmth of a roaring fire. In front of her were tables stacked with food and drink and happy patrons chatted away while lifting their mugs to the bard singing songs she didn’t recognize. It didn’t matter to her. It was too long ago that she had seen such bounty. 

Her eyes fell on a counter, operated by what seemed like a middle-aged man. Assuming he might be the owner of this establishment, she walked up and took a seat. It took a while before he even noticed her, but when he did, he instantly trotted up with an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry. My mind was just somewhere else. Do you need a room? Drink?”

The Knightess held up a handful of the odd coins she had found at the Sanctuary. “A room and food would be wonderful. Some information as well.”

A quiet sigh of relief passed her lips as the man accepted the coins without hesitation and instantly got to work on what she requested. “Of course. What do you want to know?”

“I am rather lost. Could you tell me the name of this place?”

“Dawnstar, in The Pale. Did you get lost during the snowstorms? You sure don’t look like you’re from around here. So, what would you like?”

The Knightess barely contained a frown at his reply. She had never before heard of The Pale and definitely not of Dawnstar. How far away from the civilized world was she? Still, she decided not to question it for now and instead focused on getting a much needed meal first. 

For a moment, Lucatiel was simply stunned at the diversity of all the food and drink she was offered. It was all fresh, appealing and some of it was completely unknown to her. In the end, she settled for a venison chop, grilled leeks, bread with some wine and a sweet roll that looked downright tempting despite it being unfamiliar to her. The food was delicious and after settling her aching stomach with a few large bites, she decided to continue the conversation.

“I am indeed not from here. My name is Lucatiel and I come from Mirrah. I was traveling through Drangleic, then wound up here…”

Almost immediately, the man gave her a strange look and she felt her heart drop. She could instantly tell that he had no idea where Mirrah was. In fact, she was pretty certain that he thought she was insane. Maybe she was. She would certainly believe it herself after everything she’d gone through…

Then and there, she deeply regretted even asking as a bitter reality sunk in. She really was out in the boondocks, so far away that people had never even heard of home or Drangleic. She was now completely lost, but above all, she was now extremely mystified and frightened.

“Lucatiel, huh? So, where is this Mirrah? You’re not the first one that came through here to mention it…”

The man’s friendly, curious voice pulled her from her reverie. She stared at him, her heart skipping a beat for reasons she could not possibly explain. So there had been someone here who knew about Mirrah… She moved her stool closer to the counter, her muscles tensed. 

“Oh… Can you tell me who did?”

He shrugged with a small smile. “There was someone here before you who also said he was from Mirrah. A young man named Aslatiel… He seemed just as lost and confused as you and was muttering something about Trinimac for some reason. He went to Dragon Bridge, to join the Penitus Oculatus, the Emperor’s Guards.”

Then and there, Lucatiel felt the world grind to a halt. The piece of bread she was eating fell from her hand and she was practically gaping at her host. The cynical part of her mind told her it couldn’t be, that she must have misheard. Still, the words kept ringing in her head and she knew she couldn’t deny what she had just learned.

The man he described could only be one person. She knew this as sure as the First Flame would fade. This was no coincidence, no mistake.

Her brother was also here. Her brother was alive…

Before she thoroughly realized it, she started shaking. Her heart ceased to beat for the slightest of seconds and her stomach was doing sommersaults. Involuntary tears started to form at the corner of her eyes while a smile, one forgotten so long ago, tugged at the edges of her lips. Hope… What was the last time she ever felt like this? 

She could see how the innkeeper gave her another baffled look. If he didn’t think she was crazy before, he was probably convinced of it now. She couldn’t care any less. Knowing what she did now, it didn’t matter what he thought of her at all. 

She leaned onto the counter, her tone almost begging. “Please, tell me how to get to Dragon Bridge...”

The next morning, at the break of dawn, Lucatiel stood on the porch of the Windpeak Inn. She felt excited, like when she was a little girl holding her sword for the first time. How could she not be? Things were going to be different today.

She checked the supplies she had bought. A generous amount of food from the inn, better gear from the blacksmith and potions from the alchemist. Enough to last her all the way to Haafingar Hold. Her host, Thoring she had learned, had been kind enough to provide her with a map. She now knew exactly where to find Dragon Bridge and what towns she could pass through to sleep and get additional rations.

She didn’t know this land at all. This…place, that didn’t even have Mirrah or Drangleic on its maps. It didn’t matter to her right now. Now that her brother was here, all she cared about was simply finding him. The mystery of how they both got here in the first place was something she’d deal with later.

She smiled at the sun, casting its bright light across the endless snowy landscape. For the first time in recent memory, she was feeling happy again. She felt like herself again. There was no describing how that felt, to recall that old part of herself. To recall anything at all…

That sense of self was all she needed for now. That way, she could resume her search for her brother again. And somehow, deep inside her, she knew that this time she was going to find him alive and well and they could share all of these memories together. She chuckled, loading her knapsack onto her back and sheathing her sword. 

“I am not yet ready to forget… I am not yet ready to die…”


	9. Wisdom of the Worldly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alonne leaves the past behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware that Alonne's blade is a zanbato, not a katana. However, since the game refers to his particular weapon as a katana, that's the term I will use in this fic.

Better to be wise than to be wealthy.

Better face your demons than to flee from them. 

Better die with honor than to live with shame.

Alonne had always been a man of principle. They had shaped him, defined him. They had made him the great warrior he was and guided his decisions. And now, he had seen his principles through to the end. 

He did not regret his death or any of the decisions that led up to it. He had been right not to stray from his ideals, not to give in to the lure of absolute power. It had corrupted the Iron King, the man he once considered a brother, and ran his kingdom into the ground. The man and lands he had helped bring to greatness had been devoured by infinite greed, marked by iron and blood. It had become naught but an iron war machine, grinding down both the undead and anyone who was considered an enemy.

He had been right to leave, to distance himself from the cruel tyranny his Lord had resorted to. It mattered not to him that this act was regarded as betrayal. Speaking out against his friend would not have helped; turning away was the only option to voice his distaste. Part of him had hoped that his absence would make him see reason. That he would realize his pride and arrogance had gone too far. Still, he had been wise enough to know that fragile hope was a vain one and had instead waited in a lonely keep, waiting for the inevitable.

His Lord came indeed, armed and enraged, demanding blood for betrayal. All ties between them forgotten, they had fought and it was only then that the Eastern Knight fully saw the monster his friend had become. The man was strong, violent and vicious, driven by conceit and poisonous ambition. His blows rained down on him without remorse and soon, Alonne found himself being torn apart by the same person he had once raised to his feet.

Refusing to die at the hands of such a man, he had then turned his sword onto himself. Better to do so with dignity than to be cut down like some dog. As he lay there on the floor, his life rapidly leaving his body, he had looked up at the man he once called his Lord and wondered if perhaps things could have been different.

Now, he no longer did. His conscious, floating in endless black, was no longer clinging to illusions. In the shapeless infinity, he found clarity and after a life of battle and intrigue, he welcomed it. He could rest now and contemplate now that he had nothing but time.

So he sat and meditated. It wasn’t easy at first. His spirit was still too restless, his mind too chaotic. His death had been a violent one and it was hard to take his mind off that. Eventually, however, his iron will prevailed and he was allowed to slip into the peaceful dreamscape that meditation provided.

Often, he recalled happy memories. His childhood in the East, his training to become a warrior and his travels across the realms. His family, the interesting people he had met on his journey and the man whom had been his closest friend. Such memories put him at ease, bringing him to an almost sleeplike state of calmness.

Other times, however, the pain resurfaced. The deaths of his elderly parents, the suffering and pain he had witnessed as he traveled and the betrayal of the one he once called his friend. It made him feel like he had taken his sword to his heart once more and made him sick with grief. Still, he did not fight these memories, instead letting them play out and dealing with the bitterness as it came. 

That was his routine in the darkness. His way to cope in death with the actions he had committed in life. Being alone with his memories, contemplating each and every one of them and making peace with them. It was a soothing experience and he had nothing but time to do so.

Then, at an undetermined moment in that endless sea of time, there was something else. At some point, as he filled in the black with the images from his memory, a strange vision arose from the darkness. It was something he swore he couldn’t recall, that he was certain was no memory of his. In fact, he started to realize what he saw didn’t seem like anything he knew about at all.

There were ships, somewhat similar to yet different to the ones from his homeland, sailed across a sapphire sea. Aboard them were men and women, their appearance so much like his, armed to the teeth. They spoke in a strange language, stomping their weapons onto the decks in the rhythm of a fearsome war song.

He watched how the ships landed upon a foreign shore. He saw how these people fought and conquered. How they left entire settlements as dust beneath their feet. They fought with a grace and deadliness not unlike his own, unlike the forces they faced in this new land. They were an advanced force set upon a still primitive world and it seemed as if nothing in it could possibly stop them.

Then, out of nowhere, there was a man. A formidable warrior, dressed in fine armor, standing at the head of a large army. He stood against these invaders without fear, sword drawn and dressed in gleaming armor. He charged at those invading his home, with a kind of bravery and determination that was nothing short of admiring.

Suddenly, he spoke, but the voice Alonne heard was unlike that of a human. It came from the deepest of his being, in a tongue that could not be human. He summoned fire and ice with each word, drained the life from his enemies or blew them away with just the power of his voice. He had never seen anything like it and it seemed that neither had the invaders.

Almost immediately, they dropped their weapons upon hearing that strange tongue. A clattering noise echoed through the ranks, as the fighting suddenly stopped and there was an uncomfortable silence between the invaders and their foes. A sound of confusion was heard across the valley, as everyone waited with baited breath for what would come next. 

Suddenly, the invaders bowed. Completely ignoring their opponents, they turned towards their leader and sank to the ground as a sign of deep respect. Their general walked up to the man and bent the knee as well, speaking a single word in a reverent tone. 

“Dragonborn”.

Alonne could only watch in utter amazement as the vision unfolded. He had no explanation for what he was witnessing. It looked like an event from history, but not one he knew to have taken place in his lifetime or even the history of the East. What explanation could this have? Was his time in limbo finally getting to him?

“They are an impressive people, these Akaviri.”

The Eastern warrior nearly jumped. The voice seemed incredibly close and real. What’s more, what was said seemed to be directed at him. He looked around and his eyes widened. 

Beside him was the man the invaders had bent the knee to. The vision before them had come to a halt, frozen in time. It was like standing amidst a painting, with them being the only living, breathing beings in it. He turned towards the mysterious person next to him, confusion clearly distinguishable on his face. The man smiled.

“These are the people that made my rule grand. Their wisdom and strength built my Empire. I owe them more than I can possibly put into words or repay.”

The warrior could only stare at him as he spoke again. “In a time long ago, they called me Reman. The people of Cyrodiil worshipped me as The Worldly God as well as their ruler. But I would have been neither without the Akaviri at my side.”

Even now, Alonne held his tongue and let the man speak. Why, he wasn't certain. He had always been a man who enjoyed the history of things, but deep down, he knew there was another reason why he was enraptured. He just couldn't yet put a finger on it.

“Some say there are no more of them today. Perhaps so, but their legacy lives on. And that legacy, the Blades, is in danger. The Dragons have returned and another Dragonborn has risen, but they are few and quickly slipping away.”

Inexplicably, the Eastern man found his heart drop a little at that notion. So this proud warrior race that helped build an empire was gone. Lost in time after their deeds, just like him. It all felt a little too close to home. Still, why was this Reman telling him this?

“I know you are no Akaviri, Alonne. You are not even from this realm. I have seen your soul and what it holds.” 

A shiver went down Alonne’s spine at hearing his own name and the man continued. “You hold regrets and guilt even if you tell yourself you don’t. Part of your soul is weighed down, enveloped by the sins of the man you once called your friend. Yet I sense in you the same strength, tempered with wisdom. The ability to make good men great.”

The Eastern knight could feel his eyes widen. How did this man, Reman, know his name? How did he know all these things about him? He was certain they had never met before. Was he some spook from his home country or was he truly a god? He could hardly contemplate this before the man continued. 

“I ask this of you, noble warrior, and I ask it as a fellow warrior rather than the Worldly God. Would you be willing to be alive in a world that isn’t your own? Would you risk encountering your demons once more so you can conquer them? Would you be willing to maintain the legacy of a great people? Would you want to live again?”

Alonne didn’t answer that question, simply staring at this man who called himself the Worldly God. Was he seriously offering to bring him back to life? It seemed like an offer so impossible he couldn’t possibly accept without insulting his own intelligence. He clenched his jaw to keep from simply laughing, dying to ask this Reman if he took him for a fool.

And yet…

Where the warrior’s head stood firm, his heart betrayed him. It leaped at the offer Reman made. It pounded with excitement, awash with joy at the idea of walking the earth again. It conjured up images of new adventures, new quests and battles. A chance at glory and, more importantly, at redemption. 

He tried to dismiss these foolish thoughts, but they refused to away. They soared through his head, overtaking his senses. His common sense fought back, but it was a lost battle. The thought of living was too tempting and without realizing it, he nodded.

Almost instantly, there was a hand on his shoulder and he saw how Reman smiled at him. “Then go, valiant warrior. Go forth and bring glory to the Blades and Skyrim.”

With that, the vision melted away like paint in the rain. Shocked at this, Alonne looked at Reman and saw that he was disappearing as well, fading away as if he had been naught but an apparition. A faint sense of fear settled in his stomach, but he couldn’t even act on it as the endless dark took hold once more. 

Suddenly, all Alonne’s senses started to fail him one by one. He used all his willpower to resist, but he was powerless as…something seemed to pull him away from this stagnant plane into the unknown. The force was enough for him to become disorientated and soon, he lost consciousness amidst the storm.

Days passed. Years. Perhaps an eternity. At least, that is how it felt by the time conscious thought returned to him and he opened his eyes. He stirred, as if awakening from a very trying and vivid dream, and tried to scramble to his feet. Still, strength eluded him and he fell back onto his knees, gasping.

Trying to hold himself up with his hands, he looked at himself. His body was naked, he now noticed, but he thankfully seemed to lack any injuries. A small comfort, at least. He felt like a wreck as he lay on the cold, hard floor. Every muscle in his body hurt and his head throbbed. So much so that he wondered if he wasn’t experiencing some kind of illusion. 

Still, the cold floor remained, as did the many walls he could now see all around him. Slowly finding his feet, he started to look around and explore. After a while, he determined he had to be in a temple of some kind. The architecture reminded him somewhat of home, but the imagery on the wall was unfamiliar to him. 

Except for one. He almost trembled at seeing it. The image of several Eastern-looking warriors, all kneeling before a man who spoke in an inhuman tongue.

Seeing it stunned him. He curiously ran his hand across the carvings, studying every little detail. The events depicted… They seemed so similar to the vision… To what he had seen in the endless dark. 

It made him wonder. Had he survived his ritual suicide and simply been recovering in a place with these images, resulting in these dreams? Or perhaps, had those dreams not been dreams at all?

The remnants of cold wind howling through the temple distracted him from his thoughts. He clenched his jaw as not to shiver and wrapped his arms around himself. He had no time to ask questions. He first needed to cover and sustain himself and preferably, find something to defend himself with as well.

Food and drink was easy enough. The room he was in contained a table that had some bottles of drink and bread and vegetables on it. He quietly noted that the foodstuff was still fresh and some of it had been touched, leading him to conclude people had been here not too long ago. Perhaps they still were here or bound to come back. He made a small note to beg their forgiveness for taking their belongings if they did, hoping they'd understand his situation. 

Once sated, he continued to look for weapons and armor. He spied a workbench in the adjacent room and decided to start his quest there. His instincts soon paid off. A chest there held a set of armor, with notably Eastern traits, which he happily strapped on. It more or less fit his large frame and, feeling a lot more comfortable with clothes on, he looked at the nearby table for weaponry. 

He quickly dismissed the mace and steel sword on it, instead fixated on the blade between them. Its shape was startlingly similar to his old katana, albeit a little smaller, and for some reason he felt compelled to reach out to it. The weapon was light and pleasant in his grip and he could feel his heart swell in his chest.

Alonne could not possibly explain it, but something about this weapon called to him, _sang_ to him. It inflated him with electricity, made his blood rush faster. Just holding it was exhilarating. It almost felt as if he was destined to wield it. As if it called him to do great things. 

Suddenly, a loud bang shook the temple to its core. A horrific roar echoed through the corridors soon after. The sound was incredibly unsettling; inhuman and yet at the same time, very much so. As if something human was trapped inside a cage filled with unnatural horrors…

The Eastern warrior braced himself, his hands tightening around his newfound weapon. His instinct told them a threat had descended upon this temple. Something grand and terrible that was likely the reason the inhabitants of this place were gone. For the briefest moment, he wondered if it were wise for him to run as well.

No…

He wasn’t going to run from a threat. Not even if someone would offer him all the riches in the world. He was a warrior and warriors didn’t run from danger. They stood against it and vanquished it.

Like that, he sped towards the sound. His steps reverberated through the empty temple and he could hear the stone gnash all around him. Whatever was out there must be gigantic. Large and dangerous and angry. That thought gave him pause, but not so much as what he noticed next.

There was heat. Boiling, hellish heat. The kind of heat of used to emanate from the Iron Keep…

That realization had him freeze over in shock. His head hurt, both from the heat and confusion. Why did this strange place remind him of the kingdom of the Iron Keep? Just where was he? What was waiting for him out there?

His heart was pounding rapidly as he got ever closer to the source of the impossible warmth. His eye fell onto a bright light shining out of a corridor and as he followed it, he noted with dread that the temperature rose and the horrible noises grew louder. By now, he was sweating in his new armor and a sense of worry crept into his senses, but he nonetheless pressed on, determined to see it through.

The light blinded his eyes as he stepped out into what looked like an ancient courtyard. It was adorned with two small pagodas, but the trees and grass looked whittered, ravaged by wind and snow. A sharp winter sun bathed the world in a sharp glow, reflected by an endless range of snowy mountains beyond the temple. A breathtaking sight, but it did not compare to what he found in the middle of the courtyard.

In front of him was a monstrosity of unspeakable horror. A creature made of foul flames, fire made alive by dark magic. Dark fire that raged and burned and destroyed. A demon, he realized, yet there was something about it that abhorred him to his very core. 

This was no mere demon raised from the bowels of the earth. There was something…human about it. Something terrible and familiar that cast light on the deepest, darkest aspects of life. Something that resonated deep within him as well. It was raging and squirming, like a wild animal in a cage, as if it was trying to claw out of its metal prison and burrow inside his chest. Or, worse perhaps, drag him inside to join it instead…

It was then and there that Alonne realized the true nature of what this demon was. Why it was here. Why it only let its presence be known when he regained consciousness. The monster was here for a reason. It was here because it was at least in part created from his essence. Fire given life by his soul…

For a split moment, the Eastern warrior felt like falling to his knees. This…abomination was him… Part of him was locked away in this horror, created by the man he once called a friend and his mad pyromancer. He felt like screaming and vomiting all at once. Was this kind of atrocity his reward after honorably taking his own life?

His eyes turned to his newly found sword. His hands shook. Should he perhaps drive it through his abdomen again? If he died again, would he take this thing with him? It would save this place and countless people while he kept his honor. Even if the creature died, it sure was better than to live with the shame…

By now, the demon had noticed him. The beast let out a terrible roar, shaking the very stone he was standing on. It lashed out at him with a flaming sword, ready to separate his head from his torso. Alonne only stood there, nailed to the ground, quietly watching the weapon come down while time itself seemed to slow.

Should he just stand there and let it hit him? Die to atone for this creature’s creation? Perhaps they were both fated to die if one of them was lethally struck. Perhaps…

His thoughts stopped abruptly then and there. A sense of revulsion overtook him at hearing his own thoughts. Was he really stretching his sense of honor to the extent that he could take the coward’s way out? His entire body protested at that. The Eastern philosopher in him was overruled by the vicious instinct of a warrior. A vicious instinct seeping into every sense and reflex as he finally moved and jumped out of the way of the flaming sword in the nick of time.

No… He didn’t want to die. He wanted to fight. He would not regain his honor by dying. He would do so by fighting. He was going to face this demon, this darkness created from him, and vanquish it. 

With renewed resolve, he gripped his sword and charged the monstrosity. He slashed at the creatures legs, drawing fire blood from the wounds. He could feel it burn into the outer layer of his armor, but he noted with some relief that it was notably resistant to fire. Strengthened by that knowledge, he leaped into another attack, this time inflicting deep gashes on the creature’s thighs and torso.

The demon responded fiercely. It let out inhuman screeches as it stomped around the courtyard and swung his giant weapon at him. The stones cracked under its weight and brutality, its roars echoing through the valley. Murderous rage went into every blow, as if the creature was furious at the warrior’s very presence.

Alonne didn’t back down. Expert swordsman as he was, he practically danced across the courtyard to avoid the strikes. He kept chipping away at the metal and flame, using his smaller stature and speed to gain an advantage. He slashed at the tendons and muscles, or at least where they would have been on a truly living enemy, pushing on amidst the hellish heat.

He could take this monster. This mockery of life and his essence. This was nothing but a dumb, sluggish hunk of iron and he was a true fighter of flesh and blood. He had the spirit to defeat the foe and he wasn’t backing out now.

Then, out of nowhere, there was a burst of flame. It seemed to rip itself from inside the creature, like a personification of violence taking form. The force of the flare was so great that it flung the Eastern warrior away. He slid across the paved stone, fire licking at his armor, only to skid to a stop mere inches away from where the terrace ended and the chasm of the valley began. 

Overcome with dizziness at the sight of the drop below him, Alonne rapidly scrambled back onto his feet and stepped away from the ledge. If he fell here, it was all over…

As he did, the demon came barreling down upon him, slashing, clawing and biting. The fire around it burned brighter than the hottest furnace, so searing it could melt the flesh off his bones. He found himself coughing at the lack of oxygen and backing away, losing ground to the enemy fast as the flames advanced. The fire greedily devoured everything in its path, practically burrowing into his flesh to steal his very soul.

Yet it would not have it. 

As the warrior stood there, amidst the burning grass and trees, he was gripped by the sense of purpose that had long eluded him. As hopeless as the situation seemed, he had always liked a challenge. And he hadn’t ever faced fire in such a pure form before. Now, he was more certain than ever. He wanted to live, but if he’d die, he’d die with a weapon in his hand and smiling.

With a grin from ear to ear, he answered his foe’s wordless challenge. He ducked into the small pagodas to avoid the creature’s strikes. Using the pillars for protection, he jammed his sword into the demon’s heels and legs. 

He fought like an animal, with the ferocity to match the demon itself. The burns on his armor and his skin were becoming meaningless. The pain faded every time fiery blood was spilled onto the courtyard and every time the beast let out a shriek of anger and pain. 

At one point, the demon staggered and Alonne found himself becoming bolder. Leaving the safety of the pagodas, he approached it. He ducked underneath the swing of the beast’s fiery sword and countered with a slash of his own. He stabbed and twisted his blade, working it deep into the heated iron, the same way he would spill the guts of a human warrior.

Being in such close proximity of the being, the heat was overwhelming. The Eastern man found himself gasping for breath. The metal of his armor was rapidly heating up, throbbing against his skin and seemingly merging with it. It would soon enough, he realized, if he remained here for much longer…

Still, he didn’t budge. This demon had to die. It was limping now, tired and wounded, and the fire in it was burning out ever so slowly. All he needed to do now was last just a little bit longer than his opponent did.

Gathering all his strength, he pulled his sword back and plunged it in again. The more the beast struggled, the more violent he became. Without a shred of mercy, he brought his enemy to his knees and as it lay there, desperately trying to claw back up, he quietly regarded it for a moment.

The being’s shrieks sounded different now. Angry, but also panicked and afraid. It knew it was going to die by his hand. It almost seemed like it was begging, like it was trying to appeal to the essence they both shared in order to be spared. 

The Eastern warrior’s lips drew back in a sneer. He wasn’t moved. This abomination was created by a fool that he had encouraged. He was breaking all bonds with that past and this horrid creature was simply the final link in the chain. 

Without second thought, he raised his sword and plunged it into the demon’s head. A strangled gurgle left the fiend’s mouth as the blade found its mark. A violent twitch spread throughout the giant body, the iron nerves responding one last time before life, or whatever was in there, finally left the metal husk.

As the fire inside it faded, Alonne withdrew his blade and stepped back. Looking over his now vanquished foe was an odd feeling. He was shaking on his legs and breathing raggedly. He pulled his helmet off his head, forcing himself to breathe in the fresh, cold air all around him. Doing so caused his chest to hurt and he shivered a little as the sweat on his body started to cool. He was tired and he had never wanted a rest more desperately.

Yet at the same time, there was also a sense of elation. Triumph. He felt pride and excitement…whole, as if a part of him had indeed been trapped inside the demon before. He had faced the mistakes of his past and regained his honor by erasing them, like a truly honorable warrior should. It had been a long time ago that he had felt so content. So happy to be alive…

“What is that thing? Is it a dremora? It’s…horrific…”

Alonne jerked and looked around. Immediately, he came face to face with a party of five people. At least, that’s what he thought they were. Some of them didn’t look particularly human at all. They had odd skin tones and features, so alien he swore he was dreaming.

He quietly readied himself for a fight, only to then notice an important detail. These…people wore the same armor as he did. That meant they were likely the people that resided here and had left this temple for whatever reason. In that case, he could hardly blame them for their passive hostility. He would not be happy to find a stranger in his home either.

Then, he suddenly realized another thing. He had seen the armor before. It was the same armor that had been depicted on the walls of this temple. Particularly, in the picture of the strange invaders as they bowed to the so-called Worldly God…

A small smile came onto his lips. He knew now. It told him all he needed to know about these people.

They were Blades.

As that thought went through his mind, the Blades themselves simply stared at him. In their eyes, he could detect a mix of apprehension and curiosity. They were clearly at a loss for what to do and even more puzzled in trying to figure out what was going on. 

One of them, a formidable blond woman who had the air of a leader, stared at him. “That man… He slew it by himself, managing to wield Dragonbane… But how…”

One of the recruits, a strange female creature with gray skin and pointed ears, threw him inquisitive glances. “He must be strong…but look at him. Look at his features. He doesn’t look like a race of Men… He looks like…a man from Akavir…”

Another recruit, a green-skinned brute with protruding fangs, guffawed. “What are you saying? This is a ghost of the Akaviri, watching over his fellow dragon hunters? That’s ridiculous!”

The gray-skinned female instantly told him to shove it and the two of them started bickering while the rest of the group tried to break it up. As they did, Alonne quietly tried to process what they said.

They said he looked like an Akaviri. The same people Reman the Worldly God had referred to. Those were the invaders, if he recalled correctly, the ones that died out a long time ago. He felt an urge to chuckle. No wonder they thought he might be a ghost. 

“You are such a dumb brute, Ghorbash! He is likely alive. But he might be descended from the Akaviri. Some Imperial families intermarried with them, after all.”

“Who cares what he is, Jenassa? He is strong enough to take an overgrown fire dremora on all by himself. That is a man I would happily share ale with and fight beside.”

“Silence!”

Everyone instantly stayed their tongues as they looked at the blond woman. She gave them all a stern look, one that even sent chills down the Eastern warrior’s spine. Even he felt the strength and determination that radiated from her. If she was leading this band of warriors, he had no doubt she earned this position.

She stepped up to him, a hand on her sword. He noticed the confidence in her step and the slight apprehension, the way she looked him over with clear intelligence. She was bravery and ambition embodied, but tempered with caution. Everything the Iron King had never been.

“Who are you? Why are you wielding Dragonbane? And what is your business here?”

That was the kind of question Alonne had been waiting for. He couldn’t explain why, but he already had a good feeling about this woman. It was someone who could make good use of his wisdom and who likely possessed the ability to actually do so. He smiled. Fortune was with him when the Worldly God found him and he had sent him to the right place. 

He was glad to be alive again. Glad to have this second chance and live by his principles once more. He was going to rely on his wisdom. Face his demons. He was moving on without shame. It was time to leave his mistakes in the past and move forward. To take what was great and make it grand. 

He turned towards the woman. He pointed his newfound blade, named Dragonbane apparently, at her, signifying his ownership of it, before sheathing it. He then bowed down to her, in a show of utter respect. A small smile came onto his face as he stated his purpose. 

“My name is Alonne. Where I came from does not matter. What I come for is to join the Blades.”


	10. Pieces of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alsanna finds the strength to let go of her fears and change the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For now, this will be the last chapter of this crossover. There will likely be chapters with DS3 characters later on, but I will wait until after the DLC releases so I can have the best picks. Once again, a big thanks to AO3 user Ketch117. I wouldn't have continued this crossover without this person.

From the moment Alsanna came into existence, she had been governed by fear.

It was her curse, from the moment that little shred of her gained life. She was burdened to carry all the fears her father, Manus, had felt when his humanity went rampant. It had damned her to a small, fragile and weak form, one that never evolved into anything more powerful unlike her “sisters”, one that would never follow the will of their “father” Manus.

Now, she felt more lonely and afraid than ever. Eleum Loyce was frozen in time, her husband’s suffering finally at an end. All that was left here was her now soulless body, silently praying and holding back the Old Chaos below. In a lost, empty city, she sat and diligently held vigil until the end of time, in memory of the man she loved.

It was all she could do now. As a being of Darkness, born from the Abyss, she had nowhere to go. She was not welcome anywhere and all that was left for her was to guard the world from a greater evil than herself, fulfilling her husband’s last wishes. She honored her Lord, who had loved her despite knowing what she was. 

So she prayed. She prayed and waited. Amidst a frozen, abandoned city, she carried her lonely burden. Not a tear shed across her face, for she lacked the strength to cry. Not a complaint passed from her lips, for they would be in vain. She simply stayed and carried out her duty, with the dignity and resolve of a true Queen.

Then, amidst the endless silence of Eleum Loyce and the rumbling of the Old Chaos below, there was another sound. It was loud enough to startle her from her prayers and she looked over her shoulder to see what had disturbed the peace of the frozen city. What she saw made her heart as cold as the city surrounding her.

A dark, magical portal had opened not too far away from her and horrific creatures were crawling out of it, spilling into the throne room. They looked unsightly and twisted, as if the were spewed out by the Abyss itself. Guttural screeches poured from their mouths as they scattered across the room, their beady eyes searching frantically for prey.

Within moments, they had her in their sights. Unnatural voices burst from their mouths as they formed a formation and charged at her. What they wanted from her, Alsanna didn’t know, but she wasn’t waiting to find out. She had made a promise to save Eleum Loyce from all danger and she planned to uphold it, no matter the cost.

She rose to her feet as she faced her would-be assailants. With but a whisper, she conjured storms of ice, driving them back. She drew upon the darkness within her, vanquishing all that came close. No one would disturb the city while she was still here.

Her powers clearly left an impact on the invaders. Some fled at the sight of their fallen foes, those who remained became more cautious. Still, they would not leave, launching attack after attack, crashing down on her likes waves upon a rock. 

She held her own quite well, but as the battle raged on, she could feel fatigue set in. She was tired, drained by holding off the Old Chaos for so long and the creatures never let up. They continued to crawl through the portal like a colony of ants, descending upon their prey and wearing it down with their numbers. 

It was only a matter of time before they overwhelmed her. They clawed hands dug into her legs and arms, hard enough to draw blood and cause bruises. They dragged her away from her pedestal, kicking and screaming, pulling her towards that wretched portal. She cried and begged and dug her heels in, but her pleas were to no avail and soon, she was pulled through and soon lost conscious in the overwhelming dark.

She didn’t know how long she was gone. It could have been hours, days… Perhaps even months or years. It mattered little. When she finally came to, she was no longer in Eleum Loyce. Rather, she was shackled in irons, her frail body bruised and bloodied, swung over the shoulder of one of the beings as they marched onward to an unknown destination. 

Alsanna didn’t scream. Something told her it would be useless and she was tired beyond words. She needed to conserve her strength and as she painfully swayed from side to side on her captor’s shoulder, she tried to look around. 

The landscape around them looked dreadful. It was an inhospitable nightmare of lava and molten rock, not unlike how she imagined the Old Chaos to look. For a moment, she wondered if that was where she actually was, though she had her doubts. This place actually had a sky, one alive with constant thunder and lightening, and the world was pocked with small islands that had immense spiked towers on them. This place was foreign to her, but it was no less unwelcoming than the horror lurking underneath her home.

It was at one of these spiked towers that the journey ended. As they stepped inside the atrocious structure, she was suddenly dropped off the being’s shoulder and flung onto the ground. Her already battered body screamed in pain, but her discomfort clearly meant little to her captors. One of them, dressed in fearsome armor, walked up to a throne in the middle of the room and kneeled.

“My Lord, we have captured the one with the essence of the enemy, as per your orders.” 

Still writhing in pain, the Child of Darkness found the strength, and courage, to look up. She wished she hadn’t. For the sight she beheld was enough for her to tremble.

Upon the throne sat a being so terrible it nearly eluded description. A Demon, with blood red skin and multiple arms. Everything about him betrayed cruelty and disdain and something told her that he was a powerful creature, something too terrible to be abided by the world of men.

He rose from his throne and stepped up to them. Overwhelmed by fear, Alsanna quickly lowered her head and stared at the floor, trying to look as humble and subservient as she could. She wasn’t a threat to this being and she tried her very best to convey this.

The monster, however, didn’t seem impressed. She cried out as he grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her off the floor by it, forcing her to face him. Her pale skin grew even paler as she did and she was quaking as if she looked death itself in the face. For all she knew, that might well be the case.

An eternity seemed to go by before he let go off her again. She dropped to the floor once again, her wrists burning as she tried to cushion the fall. As she lay there in a crumpled heap, she could feel waves of anger roll off her tormentor. Her stomach turned, but she soon realized it was not directed at her. Instead, it was directed at her captors.

“Dremora, I do not take well to jests... You should know better than to fool me.”

Instantly, the leader of the party cowered. “It is the one, my Lord. I am certain of it. I swear on my life. Her soul is similar to that of the usurper. I have done as you asked!”

The Demon Lord huffed. “This is my key to victory? This small, frail little thing? This…runt is the missing piece of the foe that challenges my domain? Pitiful. No wonder the Abyss has no desire to claim her.”

That word pulled the queen of Eleum Loyce from her pain and she looked up, her interest piqued. The Abyss… It was here? Fear bore into every corner of her heart. That could only mean…

Her thoughts were interrupted by another snort of the Demon Lord. “Very well, I will make do with the miserable wench then.”

With that, he grabbed her throat and yanked up her face, forcing her to look up at him. “You will help me defeat my foe. This creature called Manus that is infesting Nirn. To refuse or fail me is to face eternal torture. None shall oppose Mehrunes Dagon and live!”

His voice thundered through the spire, causing every single living being within it to shake. Alsanna was among those as well. Her innate fear rapidly expanded, fed by a growing sense of dread and confusion. 

Her sense of self-preservation told her to hold her tongue. This, she felt, was not a creature she should upset. Yet on the other side, she did not understand what it wanted of her at all. If he was indeed talking about her “father” and the Abyss, how was she supposed to stop them? 

Manus was not some kind of loving father who gave part of himself to create his daughters. She and her brethren simply sprang from his corpse when he was vanquished, each embodying a part of his corrupted, humanity-ridden self. Their conception was neither intended nor wanted and were her “father” to somehow ever regain himself, he would not hesitate to reduce them to the fragments they once were. 

Those thoughts were on the tip of her tongue and her fear induced her to spill them. “W-what dost thou expect of me, my Lord? I-I am but a simple priestess…”

Hardly had she uttered these words or the Demon Lord looked at her with eyes shooting fire. He reached out again, grabbing her by her throat. The sudden feeling of air being cut off had her gag and she desperately claimed at his hand as he easily lifted her off the ground with one hand.

“Do not think you can fool me, you little wretch! I know what you are! You are a monster, same as that thing you came from! It is incomplete, weakened without you and you are the piece I need to defeat it! You will aid me, either willingly or by me tearing your essence right out of your scrawny little body! Do you understand?”

Any answer Alsanna would give him died in her throat, along with any remnants of air as his hand tightened around it. The Demon, Mehrunes Dagon, finally realized he was applying too much pressure, he let go. Immediately, the queen of Eleum Loyce plummeted to the floor once more, wheezing and coughing. Her hand went up to her neck and she winced at the large, angry bruise that formed there.

“P-Please, Lord Mehrunes Dagon! Thou dost not seem to understand! I cannot stop the Abyss! I do not know how I could! I am nothing but a fragile little splinter of Manus, insignificant to his power. I would not even know what I could do to stop its spread!”

“Well, then you better think of something, you insolent worm! The world I am entitled to is taken from me and I will get it back one way or another! You will do that for me, one way or another!”

Now, desperation had Alsanna scream through the pain. “How dost thou expect me to do anything for thee when I cannot even conceive of anything in the first place? I’m useless to thee! What part of that dost thou not understand?”

A tense silent settled across the spire. The remnants of her outburst reverberated through the structure and she could feel a dozen beady eyes look at her with baited breath. Above her, Mehrunes Dagon was seething, regarding her with murderous rage. She instantly knew she had made a grave error.

The next thing she knew, a boot landed in her stomach. It sent her flying back, her bad hitting the ground hard. As she lay there, writhing and wailing, the Demon Lord approached her. She let out another strangled cry as he put his foot on her chest, pressing down ever so slowly. 

“You miserable cur! Were you not useful to me, I would have cut out your tongue and torn you apart where you stood! Very well then. If it is motivation you want, then I am pleased to provide it for you! Dremora Valkynaz, bring me the captive from the fiery depths!”

One of the demons instantly bowed at his command and rushed away. While Alsanna struggled against the weight crushing down on her, Mehrunes Dagon calmly waited. The queen was certain he took immense delight in her suffering and the seconds seemed to tick by agonizingly slowly as she lay there, pain taking hold of her every sense.

Then, after laying there for what seemed like forever, the demon he called Dremora Valkynaz returned. Several others were with him and in their midst, they held a person. This person looked as much a prisoner as she was, his wounds far more severe than her own. Yet the sight of his battered and abused body was not what frightened her most.

It was rather that she in fact knew him all too well…

“My Lord!”

The moment he heard her voice, the Ivory King looked up and she choked back a sob at the single word he uttered. “Sanna…”

Almost instantly, Mehrunes Dagon’s face twisted into a hideous smile. “Ah, so you do indeed know him. Even seem to care for him… Good. Then you know what you must do. Ally yourself with me. Or I will unleash my wrath upon your precious Lord.”

“P-Please… I beg of thee, Lord Mehrunes Dagon… Do not hurt him! I will do whatever thou asketh of me! I promise! I promise on my life!”

She didn’t even realize she was sobbing as she helplessly pled for her husband’s life. Even if she did, she wouldn’t have cared. All she wanted was for her beloved husband, previously lost but now here, not to suffer anymore. For that, she was willing to do nigh everything, even the impossible. 

The Demon Lord seemed to realize this all too well. Soon, he took his foot off her chest. A small chuckle left his malformed mouth.

“Ah, love. Such an easily exploited emotion. A serrated whip to keep the weak in line. I didn’t expect anything else from the likes of you.”

Alsanna didn’t hear anything he said. She simply tried her best to get on all fours, crawling over to where her husband was. She needed to get close to him, touch him. If she could do that, she would feel a little better. If only she managed to get near him again, she could convince herself that everything would be alright.

She never even got the chance. Soon, Mehrunes Dagon had picked her off the ground. He threw her towards one of his servants 

“Lock our guest in the dungeons. Next to her little lovebird, to make sure she won’t forget to uphold her part of the bargain. Tomorrow, we will strike out into Nirn! Manus has made the barriers weak between the realms weak. At sunrise, we will vanquish him and I shall claim what is rightfully mine!”

Instantly, the Demon Lord was met with abhorrent cheers, but it barely registered to Alsanna as she was dragged away, into the bowels of the building. Soon, they came upon a dark corridor and the many bars lining the walls told her they had reached the dungeon. She was thrown into the nearest vacant cell and she didn’t move as the door banged shut behind her.

Instead, she focused her attention on the cell next to her. She cringed as her husband was subjected to the same treatment as her, hitting the dirty stones with immense force. Immediately, she rushed to the bars, trying her best to reach out and determined to do something, anything, to help him.

“My Lord…”

The Ivory King looked up, a smile on his broken mouth. “Hello, my love.”

She fought the urge to burst into tears once more. She quickly wiped her eyes on her arm, watching as her husband crawled over to her and rested against the bars. He put his hand through and took hers. She relished in the contact, trying her best to lean against him despite the iron separating them.

“They hurt you really badly, Sanna…”

She shook her head, almost angry. Here he was, once again caring more about her wellbeing than his own. He had always been that way to a fault and now, it only served to make her sadder.

“They treated you no better, my Lord. But why? What do they want from us?” 

He sighed. “I am not certain, my love. I have been here for a while now, but I understand little of it myself. I know we are no longer home and that this Mehrunes Dagon is a being of unimaginable power, the leader of these things he calls dremoras. It seems the Abyss has spread here as well and he is under the assumption that a being like you can stop it.”

“A being like you.” Those words hurt her more than she could possibly describe. Why, she sometimes wondered. Why did this man choose to love her unconditionally, despite knowing what she was? Even now, in this miserable situation…

“What does he expect me to do? If it is my “father”, I doubt he will want anything else but to devour me and regain his full strength…”

The Ivory King chuckled bitterly. “I don’t think this Daedric Prince, as they call him here, cares about that. All he knows is that you’re likely something the Abyss wants and that gives him a pawn. He’s considering all possible options, at the very least.”

Alsanna quietly listened and felt her heart sink. What on earth had she landed herself in? She was far away from home, in a strange, frightening and dangerous place ruled by a sadistic Demon Lord. Her husband, who once died because of her and the Chaos, was held hostage. For them to live, if the monster would even keep his word, she was to do the impossible by stopping the Abyss. Once again, the world was befallen with disaster. All because of her…

By now, she couldn’t stop her tears from flowing freely and she didn’t even bother using a deferential tone anymore. “I am sorry… I am so sorry... I…I brought nothing but misery upon you from the moment I set foot in Eleum Loyce… It would have been better if we had never met…”

A soft chuckle reverberated against the bars. “I cannot agree with that, Sanna…”

She looked at him in confusion as she desperately tried to wipe her eyes and felt how he gently squeezed her hand. “You brought me happiness. More than enough for a lifetime. You stood by me, helped me stave off the Old Chaos. Even if those were not your intentions when you first came to me, I could not have asked for a more loyal, loving wife.”

She heard the tenderness in his voice and it finally occurred to her to ask him the question she had mulled about ever since he plunged into the Chaos. “You loved me, even though you were aware of what I was... Why?”

He smiled. “Perhaps because I believe one can always be more than where they started out. The same goes for you, my love. You are so much stronger than you think. You just do not know it yet.”

The queen of Eleum Loyce did not know what to answer to that. How would one answer to something that seemed such an obvious lie? She knew all too well that she was the weakest of her sisters and that the natural fear she always felt had made her unable to accomplish anything on her own. Now, she felt more useless than ever, lost in a strange place with so much on her shoulders. Even so, she appreciated his words, if only because they made her feel better for a while…

She felt how he pulled her a little closer to the bars. He moved her head to rest against his shoulder and she quietly reveled in his warmth. She sensed how he stroked her hair with broken fingers through the metal, placing a kiss on her brow.

“You should try to sleep, Sanna. Tomorrow will be a trying day…”

She could only nod weakly at his suggestion. As much as their confinement allowed it, she curled up against him. After a while, as much as she wished otherwise, she could feel her eyes drift shut. She had always felt safe around her husband and even now, in the midst of a terrible situation, it was no different. 

Her sleep was a fitful one. She dreamed of her home in Eleum Loyce, of the happy times she had shared there with the Ivory King. She also dreamed of the Abyss, of her birth and her sisters’. She swore she could hear them laugh and cackle, telling her how she would soon join them once more. After all, what else was she good for, in her weak and fragile state?

The nightmare would have surely awoken her, had it not been for the other things she saw in the realm of sleep as well. Images of her “father”, of her sister’s vanquished souls slithering back into the Abyss to give him form once more. Of him calling out to her, but she never came. She watched him twist and writhe within the infinite blackness, before finally reaching out to something beyond the realm and dissolving into the darkness as an unnatural pull was felt all around her.

That part of the dream confused her. Was she witnessing her father’s ascent to this world? Could he shift in and out of worlds of his own accord? Was it a power inherent to beings that came from the Abyss? 

As she wondered about that, lingering between sleeping and awakening, she suddenly felt rough hands grab hold of her. The sensation of being jerked upwards finally jolted her back into the waking world. She was instantly met with the hideous face of the dremoras, spouting commands at her in their hideous voices.

“Move it, wretch! Our Lord is invading Mundus today!”

Instantly, the blind fear she had felt before falling asleep came back in waves. On instinct, she reaches out to her husband, holding his hand in a deathly grip as not to be separated. He held firm as well, determined not to let her go without a fight. 

This only seemed to make her jailors angrier. They whacked his hand and hers with metal bars, hurling threats at them to make them separate. She could feel their claws digging into her skin, their voices droning in her ears and she didn’t know if it was pure fear or exceptional bravery that she refused to obey them and kept holding on to the Ivory King. 

Whatever it was, it seemed the dremoras were fed up enough to back off. Their leader let out an annoyed grunt, before taking one of his subordinates and shoving him out the cell. He then pointed to the door of the adjacent one.

“Bring him too! Just in case the runt forgets her place!”

The subordinate obeyed and after finally applying enough force to pull them apart, the both of them were clamped in irons of the darkest metal. The dremoras forced them both to move and before they knew it, they were back at the main room of the spire. The whole way there, she couldn’t help but cast worried glances at the Ivory King and while he tried to give her reassuring looks, she only felt more scared with every step she took.

That fear only grew worse when she looked across the throne room. The space was now teeming with the dremoras. A mess of black metal with red veins as far as the eye could see. All of them were impatiently beating their weapons against the floor in a crude rhythm, a terrifying war march for the battle to come. At the center of it all, on his throne, was the Daedric Prince Mehrunes Dagon.

“My servants! Today is the day! The day we have waited for the last few hundred years! Today, we shall conquer the mortal plane! A pretender named Manus has invaded the realm and the barriers between Oblivion and Mundus have weakened! We shall not stand for this insolence! With the tools at my disposal, I will show him the error of his ways! Today, we march on Mundus, slay the pretender and take what is rightfully mine!”

Cheers erupted through the spire and the clattering of weaponry grew louder. The sound was deafening to Alsanna’s ears and she was so petrified and disorientated that she couldn’t even put up a fight when the ones that held her pushed her forward, like a dog on a leash. A portal opened before her and the hordes of monsters poured through, dragging her and her husband with them into the unknown. 

The first thing that the queen felt once they passed through was the harsh wind blowing against her face. All around her were trees and tall rocks, covered with a layer of evening mist. They were definitely no longer in the domain of Mehrunes Dagon as the place felt unmistakably alive and a lot less alien. Still, she couldn’t help but also get a sense that it was…tainted.

She soon understood why. A thick sludge of the deepest black, engulfing a once beautiful, rugged landscape. Whatever animals she saw seemed to emanate a black, sickly aura, their behavior vicious and erratic. It confirmed what the Daedric Prince had claimed before. The Abyss had taken hold of this land as well…

Even the dremora seemed to realize how wrong things were. Their bloodlust seemed gone and the war chants had ceased. They simply held still and stared at the environment in utter silence, the tiniest hint of fear in their beady black eyes. The only one foolish enough not to sense the peril was Mehrunes Dagon himself.

“Morthal. Of all places it chose to invade. The lack of ambition is pitiful. Let us march, servants! Let us show this Manus the true face of a conqueror!”

As he spoke, trying to rally his now hesitant troops, Alsanna simply remained slumped in her jailor’s hold. She occasionally glanced at her husband in worry, but mostly decided to keep her head down and not cause any trouble. As such, she kept very quiet and simply stared at the ground, paying attention to nothing in particular. 

It was then she noticed it. The darkness, covering a patch of stones nearby, was approaching. It crept up to the giant war party ever so slightly. Like a serpent slithering up to unwary prey, it closed in inch by inch, gradual and calculating with the intention to devour. Yet what frightened her most was that it seemed to approach her in particular.

She wanted nothing more than to scream, but she found she couldn’t move nor make a sound. She was nailed to the ground, unable to even shake as she watched the dark sludge encroach. Within seconds it would reach her, likely consume her and the rest of these dremora. They would perish and she would be assimilated to the place from whence she came.

That thought brought on panic. As silent as she was, her mind was screaming. No, she didn’t want to die. She didn’t want to return to the Abyss. All she wanted right now, more than anything, was for it to go away and simply leave her be.

Suddenly, the black mass halted. It stopped in its tracks, remaining stationary. Then, as if pushed away by an invisible force, it retreated. It moved back to its previous position and settled down again, not moving so much as an inch.

Alsanna could only watch in amazement. The Abyss had refrained from corrupting them. But why? The Abyss was inanimate, a deadly substance of corrupted humanity brought about by the rage of Manus. Had it refrained because she wanted it to? Did it respond to her because she was a creature from the Abyss as well? Because she was part of Manus?

That thought quickly left her mind once more. The legion of dremora was moving again, the old lust for war returning to them. Her silly little thoughts were wiped from her mind again as she and the Ivory King were pushed forward. The march continued and it seemed her inevitable end would have to wait a little longer.

Then, she heard it. Laughter. Demented, laughter. It was the kind of sound that might have been human once, but was no longer. Now, it sounded insane and deformed, mad… Filled with deep, bitter bloodlust and all the awful things that humankind held.

Then she saw them. A million red eyes, staring at her from the dark. The laughter increased in pitch and volume. Elongated, twisted arms reached out, tipped with greedy long talons. Then and there, Alsanna knew what they were and it seemed that the dremora who held her knew at least what they meant.

“Ambush!”

Hardly had those words been uttered or the bloatheads leaped from their hiding places. With hideous shrieks, they landed from the nearby trees, crawled out of rocks and emerged from the shadows. They descended on the dremora army like a swarm of ants, clawing and biting and tearing apart any flesh they came upon.

The army instantly responded. Without so much as their master’s command, they closed ranks and drew their weapons to defend themselves. Alsanna grunted as she was thrown aside by her jailor, her safety forgotten in the rush to fight. She landed on the ground hard, instantly trying to make herself as small as possible in an effort to remain unseen. 

As she lay there, the sounds of screams and bloodshed all around her, she could see the darkness move again. As before, it seemed unusually interested in her specifically, but she also couldn’t help but keep their previous encounter in mind. She had no idea if her earlier thoughts about the Abyss were correct, but as the dremora started to drop like flies, she became desperate enough to try.

Without even thinking, she willed it towards her. It obliged almost happily, rushing towards her like a fox about to pounce on a mouse. Within moments, it was upon her and she fought the urge to cry out as it touched her skin. 

Still, the essence of the Abyss did not harm her. It stayed on her, pulsing and writhing yet not harming a hair on her head. Almost as if it was waiting for her to do something else. Taking a moment to catch a frightful breath, she went through with her second part of the plan. She spoke, softly but determined. 

“Take these chains from me…”

Immediately, the infecting darkness obeyed. The metal was torn from her wrists and feet like it was mere rags, dissolving as soon as the Abyss touched it. Now free, she scrambled up and focused her attention on her husband, lying a few feet away from her and still bound. Fearful as she was, she had a plan. If she freed him, then maybe they could run in the ensuing chaos. They could find some place that was safe. Some place far away from this horrible Daedric Prince and the Abyss. She wasn’t going to question how she had even managed to control its darkness. All she wanted was to escape.

She made her move and started to run, but it soon turned out to be a grave mistake. A few bloatheads spotted her and took chase. She ran as fast as she could, hoping to reach her husband before then, but her fragile frame and cumbersome clothes were no match for monsters created by the Abyss. Soon, they were on her and she screamed in horror as they grabbed hold off her and started to drag her away.

Then, out of nowhere, a thunderous voice spoke. A simple three words in a strage language that made the ground shake and caused a terrible force to burst forth. Instantly, the monsters were thrown off her and she stood there dazed, not entirely sure what had happened.

Suddenly, her sounds were matched by the creatures that held her. A blur of blue suddenly leaped on top of them and started slashing at them with long, sharp daggers. She could feel warm blood spurt on her face and heard the dying gurgles of the bloatheads as their lifeless bodies sank to the ground. She nearly did the same, sick and dizzy with the smell of blood and corruption.

The next thing she knew, she was rapidly pulled on her feet by a hand with an iron grip. Her first urge was to struggle again, but a quick look revealed neither a bloathead nor a dremora. This being was human, a tall woman with a long blond braid coming out from underneath her helmet. 

“Quickly, with me!”

She didn’t even get the chance to protest as the woman took hold of her and turned to someone she couldn’t see. “Artorias, I found two survivors! Take the man and get him out of the fray!”

Two survivors… That thought brought her back to her husband. As the woman pulled her through the battlefield, she snapped her head in his direction. She screamed for him as she saw several bloatheads savagely tear at him. Yet just as she was certain he was going to die, another unknown being leaped to his aid.

A giant knight with a sword as big as he was tall tore through the pack like it was nothing. Heads rolled and bones were snapped, bodies hitting the floor maimed and mutilated with a single swipe. With one of the still squirming bloatheads still impaled on his sword, he then reached out for the Ivory King and scooped him up, rushing away to get him to safety. The sight of this finally had Alsanna meekly follow the woman as well, deciding that any question about who they were and what their intentions were wasn’t important right now.

As she hurriedly followed her rescuer, she could see they weren’t the only ones that weren’t allied with either Mehrunes Dagon or the Abyss. There were others as well, viciously routing both sides with any means necessary. A warrior with a horned helmet fought bravely, speaking strange words and vanquishing all with his unusual spoken spells. A man hacked them apart with his sword, flanked by a woman casting devastating magic and a knight hurling lightening. A giant man dressed in lion armor impaled vast swaths of bloatheads on his spear while a nearby large wolf snapped them in half with its large jaws. A woman and man wielding broadswords fought in tandem, delivering devastating blows. She could even see what looked like an Eastern man, slashing through wave after wave of foes without a sign of fatigue. 

The fighters were few but fierce, seemingly more than capable of dealing with their foes and soon, both dremora and bloathead were fleeing in a panic, tearing each other apart along the way. Mehrunes Dagon quickly retreated with the bulk of his forces, clearly wanting to save his strength for another battle. Once the last enemy was out of sight, the group was quick to declare victory. The man in the lion armor motioned them to silence, however, and raised his spear for them to follow.

“Let us retreat to the camp! Take the survivors with us. We need to find out what they know.”

Immediately, the rest of the group obeyed. Alsanna found herself guided away by the woman who had saved her earlier. Her partner did the same for her husband and after a short walk, they found themselves in a small camp. She and the Ivory King were instantly set upon a bedroll, while the sorceress dressed in white walked over to them. After quickly looking them over, and providing a roughspun shirt and shoes to compensate for Alsanna’s less than appropriate attire, she got to work on her husband first and the queen felt a sense of relief as she started healing his many wounds. 

A man came up beside the sorceress as she worked. “How are they, Rhea?”

Rhea smiled wryly. “He will live, Marcus; they probably tortured him specifically to that end. But he looks every bit a person who came from the clutches of someone like Mehrunes Dagon… She, however, has superficial wounds. She is likely able to tell you a lot more than this one.”

The giant knight, Artorias if she recalled correctly, gave them a wry smile. “Please do talk to them. Because I would certainly like to know why we have to deal with the Abyss and a Daedric Prince at the same time.”

The knight who had cast lightening spells had apparently listened in as well and nodded. “Ah, jolly good. Let us see what she knows then.”

For a moment, images of torture and pain flitted through Alsanna’s head and she fought the urge to scramble back when he approached. The man, however, simply knelt down, offering her what looked like a stew and a bottle of drink. She hesitantly accepted both, quite enjoying the taste of it, while he took off his helmet. She was glad to find a friendly face underneath it, as the man simply sat down across from her and put her helmet beside him.

“Hello, I am Solaire. What is your name?”

Despite her best judgment, she found herself responding. “A...Alsanna.”

The Eastern warrior, cleaning his sword a few feet away, instantly perked up. “Alsanna, is it? Like the Queen of Eleum Loyce? The wife of the Ivory King?”

She could feel the blood drain from her face at that very moment and she could see how her husband stiffened beside her as well. Her interrogator of sorts instantly picked up on this. She could see him frown for a moment, only to perk up with a smile.

“Ah, so you two are not from this world either. Neither are we, originally at least. Is that how you ended up in the clutches of Mehrunes Dagon?”

Again, she spoke before she could stop herself. “He…he took me. Out of my home in Eleum Loyce through a portal to his realm and then this place... H-he intended to use me for some plot to defeat Manus…in some place called Morthal…”

Again, there was a silence. She noticed how Solaire’s face fell and he looked across his shoulder. Everyone else in the camp carried the same horrified expression and something told Alsanna she might have just confirmed their worst suspicions. It made her wonder. Solaire’s earlier comment indicated they were not native to this place either and her “father’s” name seemed familiar to them. Had they possibly already had a taste of the Abyss themselves, on another plane of existence?

That thought was quickly interrupted by the sight of the giant knight. He seemed to take the news worse than any of the others. His face was pale and despite remaining upright, it looked like he could faint at any time. His eyes had the blank stare of one who witnessed the infinite blackness firsthand and she noticed the concern in the blond woman’s eyes as she approached him.

“Artorias… Are you alright?”

“Yes, Ciaran, I’m fine… Forgive me. Bad memories resurface at that name…”

Alsanna’s breath halted in her throat. Initially, she had not occurred to her that she had heard the man’s name before, but now it finally hit her. This man was indeed Sir Artorias, one of the famed Four Knights of Gwyn, from a fabled age long ago. The Abysswalker himself… He knew fully well what the Abyss was and that made it likely he could see through her as well…

As that panicked thought went through her head, she saw how the man in lion armor walked up to him. “Do you wish to return home, Artorias? There is no shame in lacking the strength to face that horror again…”

The knight took a deep breath. “No, Ornstein. The Abyss overran my home before. I will not let that happen again. I have a duty to face this evil. As a knight, as a Companion and for the newborn daughter waiting for us back home…”

Saying this, he shared a smile with his female companion and the queen could feel her heart sink. That feeling if dread only crept up further when the auburn-haired male with a broadsword turned back to her. She could feel him eye her with suspicion.

“Let us not get distracted here. Fact is, Manus is here and Mehrunes Dagon is now unleashed into Skyrim, planning to kill the former and then alter reality as we know it. Please do not take offense, but what use would you be in stopping the might of the Abyss?”

“Oh, what use indeed? You always have such an interesting way of phrasing things, Alsatiel.”

Alsanna blinked when she saw where the voice came from. A small, longhaired cat appeared from behind the trees. She casually walked up to the group, rubbing herself innocently against the giant wolf, which gave her a shy lick over her head in return. She seemed to condone this display of affection, before looking at the company with what could almost be seen as a smirk. 

Instantly, the auburn-haired woman frowned. “I thought we told you to head back to the caravan, Shalquoir.”

The cat purred, almost mockingly. “Ah, but where is the fun in that, Lucatiel? I like watching history unfold before my eyes. Your human dilemmas are simply so…fascinating to my kind. Especially since you often can’t see what is right in front of you.”

Her words were ominous, but the party of warriors seemed more annoyed with than anything, particularly the blond female fighter. “And what is it we do not see, cat?”

She laughed. “Why, first of all, why this frail little being in front of you would be useful to Mehrunes Dagon. All you see is her light appearance…and not the Darkness inside.”

The warriors exchanged glances and especially the blond female words displayed irritation. “What are you trying to say, Shalquoir?”

An intense sense of horror overwhelmed the queen then and there. She knew for certain now that the cat was aware of what she was and currently, she was surrounded by potential enemies. If they were to discover her true nature, it was unlikely she, or her husband, would be shown any mercy. Her mind ran a million miles, desperate to do anything, but the feline spoke before she could stop her.

“What I am saying, sweet Ciaran, is that the lot of you do not realize is that you might as well be talking to Manus himself.”

As soon as those words left the animal’s mouth, dark clouds seemed to gather above the camp. As everyone looked back at her, Alsanna suddenly felt like a sheep among wolves. In fact, judging by the look of some of them, they were willing to tear her apart here and now. The Eastern man looked up from cleaning his weapons, regarding her with a cold stare.

“Is she…?”

The cat almost smiled. “Oh yes. A splinter of Manus, having gained sentience. Not as impressive as the complete form, naturally, but very powerful in her own right. Which is probably why a Daedric Prince would want her. No doubt Manus wants all his pieces back.”

There was a sense of neutral glee in her words that unsettled the queen immensely. Obviously, this information meant little to the feline, but it meant everything to the party of warriors. She could see how fear and suspicion suddenly swept through the ranks and within a few fragile seconds, her fate was in their hands.

It was clear everyone was contemplating what to do with her. Likely whether she was useful or even trustworthy. It didn’t surprise her at all; it was how most people had regarded her all of her existence. Some, it seemed, had already made their decision. The auburn-haired woman named Lucatiel drew her broadsword. 

“Then I say we know enough…”

Leaning the heavy weapon on her shoulder, she firmly stepped up to her. Alsanna immediately caught onto her attention and her mind went blank with horror. She quickly fell to her knees, shaking all over, clasping her hands as if in prayer to beg for her life. 

“Please! I beg of thee, do not kill me!”

The woman paid no mind to her pleading, but it was clear her decision didn’t go over well as Rhea practically shrieked at her. “Lucatiel, have you lost your mind? Put your sword down!”

Aslatiel instantly stuck up for his sister. “She is a part of Manus. She carries part of his strength! Best eliminate her now, so Manus might be weakened and we don’t have to fear treachery!”

Immediately, Solaire responded, sounding more angry than she ever heard. “So you would execute someone before knowing whether she is guilty? Or simply because it is convenient? Then you are beasts and no knights at all!”

Deciding not to question why this particular man might want to protect her and her loved one, the queen pleaded with them once more. “I wish thee no ill! I have no intention of returning to my “father” or aiding him in any way! Please, I beseech thee to let me and my Lord go! We will go away from here and not trouble thee! I promise!”

The Eastern warrior simply huffed, seemingly deaf to her begging. “This is a time of war, Solaire. We must act quickly in order to survive.”

Ornstein snarled behind his lion helmet. “And here I thought you held your honor close, Alonne! Or have the Blades taken that from you?”

“You will not harm her!”

Alsanna jerked as her husband decided to speak up. Despite his injuries still healing, he had stood up and snatched a blade from the nearby stash. He had risen to his full height, fighting to stand up despite the pain. His eyes flamed like the Old Chaos and his agonized face was drawn back into a ferocious snarl as he pointed a weapon at them.

“You want to kill her, you will have to go through me. She is my wife and by Faraam, if you touch one hair on her head, I will end you!”

That was the final spark that set off the powder keg. Immediately, the camp broke out into a vicious argument. Swords were drawn and threats were hurled, people rapidly taking sides over whether she would live or die. The volume and potential for violence increased by the second and at that very moment, Alsanna was certain she and the Ivory King were going to be torn apart in the fray.

“Stay your blades, everyone.”

A strong, determined voice rose above the cacophony of arguing. Immediately, everyone paid attention and turned their heads towards its owner. The warrior with the horned helmet now stood beside her. Taking a position between her husband and the other fighters, the stranger stood firm, exhibiting the demeanor of one refusing to budge even an inch.

Artorias gave him a displeased look, his wolf companion upset and still growling beside him. “Calm down, Sif. I beg of you, stay out of this, Dragonborn. These are matters for those familiar with the Abyss.”

The warrior huffed. “Skyrim is my home as much as it is yours. I plan to save it and for that, we need to look at all possibilities.”

Instantly, Ciaran let out a mocking scoff. “And what kind of possibilities does this piece of the Abyss leave us?”

The one they called the Dragonborn blatantly ignored her and the queen felt awkward when her new defender stooped down and talked to her in a calm, business-like tone. “Alsanna… If I may ask, we were watching Mehrunes Dagon’s forces for a while before the bloatheads attacked. You were shackled before. How on earth did you get out of them by the time we got to you? You do not seem like the type that would know how to pick locks.”

Alsanna simply stared at her interrogator, surprised beyond words. Most people would have not noted such a detail. It impressed her and worried her at the same time. Especially since a truthful answer to that question might put her life on the line once more. Still, with nothing left to lose, she decided to divulge all she knew.

“I…I cannot explain to thee very well. The dark…the one my “father” causes to corrupt the land… It yielded to me. Obeyed my request to break the shackles. I cannot say for certain why, but I was somehow able to keep it at bay. Both the Old Chaos and the Abyss…When I pray, will it so through ritual…”

With every word she said, she could feel the animosity rise once more. Especially Lucatiel eyed her with suspicion, as if she was ready to sprint over again and put her to the sword all the same. Her question, spoken with much skepticism, emphasized this.

“Are you certain we should trust her at all? For all we know, she can turn on us at a moment’s notice.”

Like clockwork, her husband took a step forward, sword at the ready. The queen could feel the danger permeate the camp and she knew that if she didn’t do something, anything, their lives would perhaps be forfeit. Feeling a rare smidgeon of bravery, urged on by the desire to live, she replied. 

“I understand thou dost not trust me. My kind has done very little to deserve so… But I mean thee no harm and am just as frightened. It may not mean much to thee, but please. I hereby offer my services to thee, to help thee on thy quest to vanquish Manus in whatever way I can.”

Her plea, wrapped in the form of an offer, silenced everyone, but just as she feared they might refuse her, the Dragonborn spoke. “You said you have the ability to repel dark magic. Are you a mage, Alsanna?”

She nodded, allowing the warrior to continue. “I wish to make you an offer. Bless our weapons and armor. Impart on them the ability to withstand the nature of the Abyss. I will ask no more of you and we will let you go in peace, if only you give us a chance against our enemy. Does that sound fair to you?”

For the first time since she came to this plane, Alsanna found it in her to smile. “My eternal thanks to thee, noble warrior. Thou shallt not regret it, I swear to thee!”

The Dragonborn returned the friendly expression, ignoring the disapproving looks of some of the party. A quick nod was exchanged with Rhea, who then rushed to one of the tents and then approached her with a strange object. She explained it was an arcane enchanter and that in this world, they used it to imbue magic to objects. She offered to help her use it and the queen was grateful for the help. 

The enchanting process turned out to be relatively simple. Rhea was a rather skillful mage in her own right and a patient teacher. Soon, they managed to get through the array of weapons and armor rather well and her new colleague of sorts offered to continue work on her husband in the meantime. She also didn’t mind striking up a conversation during the activities and starved for some friendly interaction, Alsanna happily reciprocated. 

Indeed, it seemed that the Dragonborn’s decision had soothed the situation somewhat. The group appeared a little more amiable to her and her husband now, offering them more food and drink, as well as a bedroll for the night. They were even willing to talk to her now, sharing a little of their backgrounds as well. 

One thing that all of their stories had in common, she noticed, was a sense of contentment at their lives in this new world. Many of them had experienced some form of immense strife, either in Lordran or Drangleic, and quite embraced their simpler existence. Ornstein, Solaire, Marcus, Alsatiel and Lucatiel cherished in the Legion, city guard and Penitus Oculatus, respectively. Rhea spoke of her duties as a priestess with much fondness. Artorias and Ciaran gladly talked about being part of the brave Companions and their child waiting at home. Alonne told of the honor of the Blades. Shalquoir narrated strange tales of traveling with a caravan of bipedal, talking cats. The Dragonborn had so many stories to tell she was sure she would have to stay many nights to hear them all.

For some reason, all these tales touched her immensely. Here were people who had gone through pain and adversity as much as she did. Who had ended up in this strange place without so much as clothes on their back. Yet here, they were, having embraced their new lives and accepting this place as their new home. A home they were willing to defend to the death once more. 

Indeed, when morning finally came, she watched them go with much sadness. Ornstein, the unofficial captain of the party, had urged her to leave their current location of Kjenstag Ruins and head north-east from there to the relative safety of Dawnstar. The Ivory King had gratefully accepted that information, but for some reason, Alsanna found herself far less willing to leave. 

“I have a bad feeling about this, my Lord.”

Her husband looked up from packing the food, gear and weaponry their hosts had so graciously provided them with. “How so, my love? You have done what you could for them. The rest is in their hands.”

The queen shook her head. “I have no doubt in my mind that they could vanquish Manus. Yet the question remains for how long. He was vanquished in the past, which led to the birth of my sisters and me. How many more, I must wonder? How many more creatures like me will be brought into this world?”

Her husband sat back on the balls of his feet, looking her over. “Then what do you wish to do, my love?”

For a brief moment, she held her tongue. The words on her lips felt like stupidity, blasphemy even, yet she felt they needed to be said. She was frightened, more than she had ever been in her life, yet an insurmountable force forbade her from simply running. It was only so long that she could ignore that call.

“I do not know, my Lord. I cannot explain, but something tells me I must go back. I must try to aid these brave warriors, in whatever way I can…”

The Ivory King didn’t say anything in response and much to her surprise, she could see a smile on his face. It was one she recognized all too well. It was the smirk of a warrior who heard the call of battle and right there, she saw in him the fearsome fighter she had fallen in love with years ago. He looked as if she finally said the one thing he was dying to hear. He put down his rucksack and produced the beautiful stalhrim sword the Dragonborn had gifted him with, seemingly numb to his injuries.

“I trust your judgment, my love. Let us go then. Let us face the Abyss once and for all.”

Then, just like that, they were running. Across snow and swampland, with one clear goal in mind. Everything else was forgotten and never had either of them felt so sure of their mission. They ran as if the wind itself was in their veins, rife with adrenaline as they prepared to engage in the battle of a lifetime. 

The battleground was found easily enough. The closer they got to Morthal, the more dremora bodies they found strewn on the ground. They outnumbered the bloatheads ten to one and any of them unfortunate enough to be alive were howling madly, their dark aura indicating they were now corrupted by the Abyss. Her husband easily cut through them, the chance to fight clearly exciting him, and she quickly helped herself to one of the black, veiny daggers on one of the corpses. Feeling armed made her feel more secure, even if it wasn’t likely a battle she was going to win with steel.

Then, as they got ready to move again, a voice was heard. It shook the trees and seemingly made the very mountains tremble. It was filled with bloodlust and wrath, the urge to kill laced into every word.

“Manus! I challenge you for the dominion over Morthal! You have razed my army! Corrupted my followers! But you have yet to face the Daedric Prince of Destruction itself! So face me, pretender, and face your end with dignity!”

Alsanna effortlessly recognized the voice of Mehrunes Dagon. She got up, clenching her dagger tightly and urging her husband to make haste. They were close to the town now and from the sound of it, two power eldritch beings were about to fight to the death. 

Now practically soaring, she pushed through to her destination, freezing any foe that got in her way. Any black sludge from the Abyss was willed out of her path, her fear pushed aside by sheer determination. Any fatigue creeping up on her was shrugged off, any bruise or blister ignored. She followed the noises of violence and clashing of steel, practically scampering up a large rock in her way on all fours, until she finally reached her destination along with her husband.

The sight she saw defied description. A large avatar of Mehrunes Dagon was rampaging through Morthal, descending on Manus with an axe and steel claws, furiously trying to tear the much smaller entity apart. He landed several strikes on him and Alsanna swore she could feel her “father’s” pain as he cried out. 

Drunk on the promise of future power in Nirn, the Daedric Prince advanced, facing his foe with brute force while taunting him all the way. As he bashed and hacked at the primeval man, the queen almost felt pity for her former tormentor. Mehrunes Dagon was an arrogant being indeed and little did he know that his assault only served to make Manus angrier.

Indeed, it wasn’t long before the creature decided to fight back. Black magic violently tore itself from his body, aimed squarely at the Daedric Prince. In his arrogance, Mehrunes Dagon didn’t flee, confident he could take the damage. He was wrong.

The magic was enough to stagger the Lord of Destruction, effectively stopping him in his tracks. Manus eagerly took the opportunity and threw himself at him. Like the wild beast he was, he started tearing at the Daedric Prince’s flesh. He stomped and pounded and ripped, deaf to his enemy’s agony, driven forth by that single mad desire to corrupt and destroy. 

It wasn’t long before Mehrunes Dagon was laying amidst the black sludge, helpless as the primeval man attempted to tear him apart. He was twitching and growling, like a snake in the jaws of a weasel. The sounds coming out of Manus’s mouth were almost ones of excitement, the slobbering of a predator just as it was about to feast on bountiful prey. What a price it must be too, to corrupt a Daedric Prince to one’s will…

Then, out of nowhere, there was a battle cry. Manus paid it not mind, occupied as he was with his victim, but it proved to be a grave error. Out of the shadows leaped Artorias and in one fell swoop, he plunged his giant greatsword into the primeval man’s back. Her “father’ screamed, but as he tried to shake the knight off, he was set upon by twin blades slashing across his ankles. Ciaran’s distraction allowed her lover to jump off and out of harm’s reach before Marcus ran up to douse their enemy in flames.

Alsanna could only watch in utter admiration how well the party of warriors worked together. The moment Manus advanced enough to gain upon Marcus, the giant wolf Sif ran up and bit down on the creature’s limb, holding it like a vice and ripping the flesh. When the being got around to attacking the canine, Lucatiel, Alonne and Aslatiel assaulted it with their swords, only to get out of dodge when Ornstein and Solaire began pelting it with lightning. This gave Rhea enough time to cast what looked like fire straight from the sun upon it. All the while, Shalquoir did her part by delivering small lightning fast attacks in-between while the Dragonborn stunned with its his strange spoken spells, making sure their opponent was continuously distracted. His dark magic had little to no effect, repelled by the weapons and armor she had previously blessed.

To see them fight together like this was truly a marvel to behold. Their attacks were relentless, their determination endless. They were no doubt afraid, but the need to protect themselves and their homes mattered above all else. It was inspiring and the tentative plan she formed on the way here now felt more tangible than ever. They were taking their lives back from the horror that stole it from them and she was going to help them achieve just that. 

Taking a deep breath, she got up, only to be stopped by her husband. “What are you doing, Alsanna?”

She looked back at him with a small, timid smile, noting just how calm she sounded. “Do you trust me, my Lord?”

He stared at her incredulously and again, she felt she couldn’t blame him. How odd it was to ask him that question, having once come to his kingdom with the intention to destroy it. Here she was, about to face the Darkness that birthed her and she was asking him to trust her that she would indeed not turn on him. She would not blame him for answering her in the negative. 

After several seconds, however, he nodded. He put down his sword and reached out to her, something she happily allowed. He embraced her and he smiled.

“Go, Alsanna. I have faith in you.”

Those last words, spoken with so much trust and affection, was what finally drove her forward. Filled with a sense of bravery she had never felt before, she started walking. She headed down the path into Morthal, the Darkness slithering away from her if she only thought it, and headed straight towards the monster from which she was created.

Manus sensed her almost instantly. The primeval man sharply turned its head and she swore she could almost see delighted surprise on his face. Then he charged forward, blatantly ignoring the warriors all around him. She instantly knew what he intended, but she no longer found it in her to be afraid. 

“I do not fear you, “father”.”

The monster was close now, so close it could almost touch her. It stumbled and staggered as it tried desperately to reach her, hindered by the lightning Ornstein and Solaire were still hurling at it. She waited until the last possible moment and closed her eyes, focusing on the Abyss all around her and trusting in fate. 

Suddenly, darkness lashed out at her “father”. Like shackles of the darkest black, they locked him in place. The primeval man let out a furious roar and somewhere deep within him, Alsanna swore she could hear her “sisters” do the same. She could sense them writhe and rave inside that distorted body, practically hear them whisper in her ears, begging and pleading with her to join them once more, wondering why she would even think to betray them and “father”. It meant nothing to her.

“You cannot take me. Not anymore. You are nothing but humanity running wild. My “sisters” nothing more than the emotion you imparted on them. I, however, evolved.”

Manus raged and her “sisters” cackled. They mocked her and jeered at her. They called her pathetic and weak, a mere splinter unworthy of the sentience she had gained. It almost made her want to laugh. They were nothing but blanks slates that had slid right back into their father’s form when the situation called for it. She was the one that became powerful enough to rise above her nature.

“I am more than what you made me, Manus. I am Alsanna, Queen of Eleum Loyce. Wife of the Ivory Queen. The Grand Priestess who kept the Old Chaos at bay. I have become powerful in your absence and I shall not yield to you!”

Again, the primeval man tried at flail at her. She remained motionless, unaffected, even when the other warriors ran up to attack him once more. They slashed and hacked at him, thoroughly immobilizing him. Meanwhile, she readied the black dagger she held, quietly imbuing it with her magic. Her mind was made up and she wanted her “father” to know what she intended. 

“This Darkness, this wretched evil of the Abyss is no longer what drives me. I control it, rose above it. And it shall be my tool to undo you. You will not corrupt this land ever again!”

As the warriors made sure to held firm, she could sense how the monster intended to summon more black magic. She didn’t hesitate. In one swift motion, she plunged the dagger into his heart, ignoring the deafening scream he released. Then, channeling all her strength through the weapon, she issued her faithful command to the Abyss. 

“Be gone, Manus! Return to your rest and the grave from whence you came!”

With those words, she focused her mind on the darkness and willed it to part. Manus screamed. The corrupted primeval man writhed and wailed as if his body was torn from the inside out. Inside his body, she swore she could hear her sisters cry out as well, but she steeled herself against their wordless pleas. This was a mercy kill and she was going to end the trail of suffering caused by her “father” once and for all.

Soon, his hideous form crumpled in her hands, dissolving like sand in the waves. The flakes withered away in the breeze, the darkness swirling and churning all around him as his essence, his soul, faded away. Alsanna could feel how her compatriots stared at her, but at this moment, she could not care less. Instead, she could feel a strange power surge through her, blinding her to everyone and everything around her.

That moment, she saw everything. Her father’s humble origins as the Furtive Pygmy, the primeval man. His creation of humankind. The betrayal by the Gods and his subsequent death. His journey from one world until the next and all he saw as he ripped through time and space. She could see every plane of existence in this strange place, the world and voids and all the realms in-between. The entire universe was an open book to her and she could only marvel at the revelations before her. 

“Well done, runt. Well done. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

The deep, thunderous voice of Mehrunes Dagon pulled her away from her rapturous visions. She turned around, seeing how her compatriots readied themselves to fight. The giant, hideous Daedric Prince was upon her. His hands brandished giant swords, a sadistic grin evident on his face. He approached her with the arrogance of a conqueror and the bloodlust of a warlord.

“I didn’t think you could serve as anything but bait, but you eliminating my rival works just well. But now, you have outlived your purpose. I shall happily claim your soul and those of your companions for eternal torture in the Deadlands. A fitting fate for such wretches…”

Alsanna looked at him and didn’t move. Yet it wasn’t because she was too scared to move. On the contrary. For perhaps the first time in her life, she felt absolutely no fear whatsoever. It had melted away with her father’s corporal form, a tiny whisper among louder and more prominent voices in her mind. This moment, the fear she had embodied once was gone. Now, there was nothing but righteous rage. 

Without so much as bothering to speak, she focused on the darkness all around her and directed her wrath solely on the approaching Daedric Prince. Whether she could do such a thing or not was no longer even a question to her and her faith was rewarded. The black sludge immediately obeyed her, lashing out at him with unbridled hunger. 

The abomination screamed as the greedy tongues bore into his flesh, drawing blood and immobilizing him. He frantically slashed at the tendrils with his swords, trying to get loose and hurl himself at her with the intent to crush her. The power of the Abyss, however, was relentless and it wasn’t long before he was brought to his knees. At this sight, she closed her eyes, drawing upon the strange energies in this realm, and conjured the ice magic she was so familiar with, effectively freezing the lower half of the Daedric Prince to the ground. Once she was certain he was secured, she walked up to him, her gaze as cold as the element she had just wielded.

“You shall do no such thing, Mehrunes Dagon. You are in no position to make demands at all.”

The creature’s eyes widened, before letting out a furious snarl. “How dare you! You shall pay for defying me!”

The queen noticed just how emotionless her own voice sounded. “No, how dare you! How dare you threaten me and my husband? The people of this realm? How dare you lay a hand on a Daughter of the Abyss! You are nothing but an arrogant buffoon, a coward unwilling to fight a worthy foe. And a worthy foe I am, “lord of Conquest”. I am far beyond you and you shall learn the error of testing my limits!”

Quietly, she willed more of the black to seep into her tormentor’s wounds. She could tell it was in immense pain, perhaps more than a creature like him at ever felt. It gave her no pleasure, but she could feel a sense of justice at making him suffer for his crimes. She had made up her mind on what to do with him and it was clear that he knew it too.

“Do you intend to kill me? You little fool. You cannot kill a Daedric Prince! I will simply reform in the Deadlands. And when I do, I will claim what is rightfully mine! And I tell you now, I will come back for you and crush you!”

She merely gave him a cold glance, her courage increasing with every second. “Of course you will come back. I am counting on it and I will be waiting. Until then, it is naught but Oblivion for you!”

Then and there, she struck, ignoring the dying screams of her tormentor as she enacted justice upon him. With ice creeping up his body and the Abyss swallowing him, Mehrunes Dagon’s corporal form was no more. All that was left was blood and viscera, all of it being greedily devoured by the deep blackness before gathering once more at her feet.

Her heart was pounding in her chest. She had done it. For the first time in her life, she had been strong. She had been brave. Singlehandedly, she had done the one thing she thought a fragile being like her would never be capable off. She had saved herself and her companions right here in the lion’s den, making certain they could leave this cursed town once more.

The town… She looked around and immediately, her spirits dampened. Morthal was still lost, its people still corrupted by the Abyss. Even if the Abyss would spread no further, this place was forever cursed. Unless… 

She looked at the black sludge all around. It swayed quietly, lifelessly and thoughtlessly, like clay waiting to be molded once more by her command. _Her_ command no one else’s. She took a deep breath. If she could control it, then perhaps she could also undo what happened here. Still high on her victory, she felt she at least had to try. 

“Leave this place. Leave these people. Make it go away.” 

She kept repeating that, her lips moving but no sound emitting from them. She could feel the darkness around her shift and churn, heading towards her like a servant to its master. She could feel it coming at her from all sides, from houses and materials, even from inside the bodies of living things. It scurried across the ground to reached her and it wasn’t long before she was standing amidst the darkest element of humanity.

All around her, Morthal slowly returned to life. Those who were previously mad, raving bloatheads returned to human form, plants and trees lost their decayed appearance. By a mere command from her, the Abyss was exorcised from all living beings, almost happily returning to the one being to whom the darkness was innate.

It surged all around and across her and she couldn’t help but revel in the feeling. Never before had she felt so powerful, so fearless. Here she was, the last of her kind, with one of the most dangerous powers in existence at her fingertips. She had overthrown beings with the power of a god and undone their crimes, all on her own.

She was not the only one to realize this. By now, the warriors had gathered all around her, as had some of the villagers who had regained their senses. They all kept their distance due to the menacing dark, but the looks on their face were ones of awe and admiration. Respect, without a trace of fear. She could not recall the last time she had been given that by any other person than her husband…

Indeed, the Ivory King seemed no less proud of her. Having left his hiding place on the outskirts, he came limping towards her, arms outstretched and smiling. She rushed towards him, practically jumping into his embrace. She buried her face into his shoulder, glad to once again feel his warmth and nearness. 

“You did it, Sanna… Manus is gone. You vanquished him. I’m so proud of you…”

Shalquoir purred atop Sif’s back. “Indeed you have. Chapeau, child of Darkness. You have given this cat quite some amusement.”

The group was quick to glare at the talking feline, but it hardly mattered to Alsanna. Why should it, when she had just proved everyone wrong about what she could be and could do? She had risen above her father and her very nature, ensuring neither could ever harm anyone again. She felt nothing could destroy the happiness she felt this very moment. 

“So, what now?”

She, and the rest of the group, turned to Marcus as he raised his voice. “Manus is defeated, Morthal restored… Yet the Abyss is still here. It will still corrupt any living being who will come across it. We have to find out some way to keep it from harming anyone else…”

Instantly, the joy she felt at her newfound accomplishments evaporated. As harsh as the warrior’s words were, he definitely had a point. The Abyss formed an immeasurable threat to humans, even if it was under her control. As long as it remained here, it could still corrupt someone, perhaps even spread again. Unless…

“There is a way…”

Instantly, that caught the attention of her compatriots and they stared at her with surprise and interest as she continued. “The Abyss obeys me, is tied to me. I can take it with me, away from this place. Away from this Nirn. There are other planes here, many of which humankind does not even yet know… I am a being of the Dark, not much different from a Daedric Prince like Mehrunes Dagon. I do not belong here, but I may find refuge on one of those many planes…”

Immediately, she was met with several wide-eyed stares. They were ridden with shock, perhaps even concern. She knew all too well why. They were away of what she was implying and understood the gravity of her intentions more than anyone else. 

The Dragonborn then spoke with voice that sounded uncharacteristically horrified. “You are going to Oblivion…”

Alsanna nodded, a sad smile on her face. “I think that is my only choice. People like thee, honorable and brave, deserve to live thine lives. Thou hast suffered enough. Allow me to take this burden from thee. Let me atone for the harm my “father’ has wrought on thee.”

The party of heroes looked at each other, their hesitation evident. Even if they hadn’t known each other for a long time, they seemed unwilling to have her banish herself to another, potentially dangerous plane. She felt somewhat touched by that, truth be told. It was nice that despite them knowing what she was, they considered her a good person. She appreciated their concern, yet she knew what had to be done. She was not going to let anyone in this place suffer from the Abyss again.

“Sanna, please do not…”

Her husband’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. She turned to face him and almost wished she hadn’t. His expression revealed an absolutely broken man and tears shimmered in his eyes. It nearly made her heart shatter. Even now, she could tell he still loved her.

She put her hands on his to reassure him, but she found she sounded a lot more begging and broken than she wanted to. “I must, my Lord. You once told me it was our duty to prevent evil from spreading into the world. Please, let me fulfill that. Let me finally take from you the burden my presence brought.”

A short silence ensued between them and she realized he didn’t know what to say. What could he say anyway? He knew she was right, she was certain of that. Being a creature of the Abyss had endangered his rule many times and loving her had come at a tremendous prize. He deserved a quiet life, a dignified second chance in this strange land. Even if losing him again caused her unimaginable pain, she wanted to give him that freedom.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he looked her in the eyes again, a small smile on his lips. “Then let me come with you.”

The gasp coming from Alsanna’s mouth was audible throughout the town. She stared at him, dazed, wondering if she had heard him correctly. His response stunned her. Was he honestly telling her he wished to follow her into Oblivion? Shocked by the very thought, she tried to speak, only for him to interrupt her.

“I love you, Sanna. When I wed you, I promised to be beside you and protect you. Please let me keep that promise now, because I do not wish to leave you again. No matter where you go…”

The queen of Eleum Loyce clenched her jaw, fighting the tears that threatened to escape her eyes. Even now, her husband refused to leave her. Even with the promise of an easier, pleasant life, he valued his loyalty to her above anything. He truly loved her, enough to follow her into the unknown.

She swallowed, smiling ever so slightly. “Very well then… Let us leave this plane and leave its inhabitants to their lives…”

With that, she took a deep breath. She turned to her companions, giving them a polite nod. Part of her wished she would have had more time to know them, but she valued the short time she had spent with them. Their bravery would be a blessing for this realm and she was glad to bear witness to their selfless sacrifice. She was ready to go, but she didn’t wish to do so before saying goodbye.

“Farewell, brave warriors. It was an honor to be acquainted with thee. May thou live long, peaceful lives, away from the trials of thine former world.”

The warriors nodded, their faces displaying joy and sadness at once. 

Then, one by one, they bend the knee. One by one, they bowed down in front of her, in the ultimate show of respect. The inhabitants of Morthal soon followed and soon, she was looking over a sea of people paying tribute. It nearly made her breath halt in her throat and it definitely did as the Dragonborn, on behalf of all of them, smiled at her, with a voice full of reverence. 

“Farewell, Alsanna, savior of Morthal. May you be known as the one who brought renewal and redemption to this town.”

Now, the tears she had previously held back flowed freely. She tried her best to stop them, but in the end, she couldn’t even bother. Why should she? For the first time in her life, she was not looked upon as a creature of darkness. To these people, she was a force of good, a savior. Someone to love, not to fear…

That thought strengthened her more than anything and with that happy notion, she reached for her husband. He wrapped her in a warm embrace and with his skin against hers, she finally willed herself to go. She whispered against his chest, putting herself in the hands of fate.

“Take us away. Take us somewhere safe. Follow me there.”

Focusing all of her newfound strength, she reached out with her mind. Beyond Nirn, beyond what she knew to be the Deadlands, beyond anywhere where she felt the signs of unnatural life. She searched quietly, until her mind finally drew upon an empty sphere within the void, remote and stable. She reached towards it, willing herself to go there and soon, she felt the familiar pull she had once felt in her dreams. The dark then enveloped her and within seconds, her vision went black. 

“Sanna? Sanna. Wake up, my love. Wake up.”

Her husband’s voice sounded far away, yet she swore she could feel him close by. The queen stirred, opening her heavy eyelids and looked around. She found him leaning over her, his concern quickly turning to relief as she looked at him. When she tried to get up, he helped her and allowed her to lean on him as she surveyed their surroundings. 

Her eyes widened as she did. All around her was what looked like a giant palace. As her vision gradually became sharper, she realized it was familiar to her. In fact, it heavily resembled her home in Eleum Loyce, though not quite. Rather, this place was made of enchanted, unnatural ice, neither cool nor warm to the touch. Stalhrim, she then noted, same as her husband’s sword. Meanwhile, her body was cloaked in the deepest black, as if the Abyss itself helped her keep her modesty.

Alarmed by this, she undid herself from the Ivory King’s grip. She stumbled away, frantically looking for something she herself didn’t know. Beset by confusion and mystery, she twisted and turned. Just where was she? What had happened to her home? Was she still held inside some kind of twisted dream?

Still, she realized, this place felt real. Though she could no longer sense the Old Chaos and her home no longer looked like she remembered it, she felt far too lucid to be dreaming. Yet if so, then where could she possibly be?

Just then, her thoughts were cut off by a loud growl. Fearing an enemy, she held still and instinctively called upon the dark as she recalled doing once before. It gathered at her fingers, like a trusty sword, but as soon as the source of the growl made itself known, it dispersed as soon as she laid eyes on the creature. She knew it. How could she not recognize her husband’s pet?

“Aava…”

The tiger approached her happily, letting out a small puff by way of greeting. Soon, he was joined by others and she could only star at astonishment as she was approached by Lud and Zallen, as well as the rest of her husband’s companions. She hesitantly reached out to them, almost unwilling to believe they were real, only to feel their warm fur under her hands.

She gasped, only to become more shocked as other beings came out of the woodwork. Humanoid creatures, indistinguishable from humankind in appearance, yet something about their aura was different. They were Daedra, she could sense, not unlike the dremora that had held her in the Deadlands. Yet somehow, she felt the souls of her faithful vanquished knights from Eleum Loyce in their chests. When they saw her, they called her by name and knelt and it only served to make her more confused. 

Unnerved and astonished, she carefully toed away from this display, only to come across a large balcony leading outside. She rushed through, desperate for fresh air perhaps, only to once again be met with a sight she had not anticipated.

The world she looked upon was not Forossa. The inhospitable icy plane, lit by a pale sun, was nowhere to be found. The darkness of the Abyss was upon the sky, but it was neither dark nor foreboding. It blanketed a world of ice and endless forests like a gentle night sky and amidst the black, there were a million silver stars and an unnaturally large ivory moon. The world itself was teeming with many strange creatures, some created from the dark and others not, all inhabiting this odd place as if they had never been anywhere else.

“You did this, Sanna.”

The voice of her husband shook her from her stunned trance. She jerked around and saw how he joined her on the balcony. He stood beside her, regarding the world below with a smile. Unlike her, he didn’t seem perturbed at all.

“This plane was empty when we first appeared here. But once you were there, it changed. I do not know for certain, but I think it is shaped from your power. Your memories.”

All Alsanna could do was stare at him. “But how?”

He shrugged. “I cannot tell, but I think these planes may naturally be empty. I think they require a powerful being to alter them. A being that is not human, like yourself. This place, this Wintertide, is of your making, built by your wants and needs, by all you gathered from this world and home.”

She could only listen to him in absolute silence. She had created this? This strange, but beautiful world? She had repurposed the Abyss and all the misery it brought into this landscape on a previously empty plane? 

The thought of it overwhelmed her, but it also strengthened her. If anything, it made her feel proud and powerful. She had brought godlike beings to their knees and now shaped this place with her mere will. Perhaps, she was truly stronger than all her sisters. Perhaps, she was truly more than a sliver of Dark. 

Even if she was, she decided, it didn’t matter. She had done her part and found herself a new home. A place where she could be content and keep everyone she loved safe. The Abyss was trapped in this plane and could never harm anyone in Nirn again. That was something she would gladly settle for. 

She turned to her husband, finally daring to smile. “Very well… Then let this be our home, my Lord, and let me be at your side once more.”

Much to her surprise, however, the Ivory King shook his head. “No, my love. This throne is yours. I relinquish my crown to you and shall provide you with my love and wisdom while your strength rules this Wintertide in Oblivion. I shall be at your side, as your lover and husband, until the end of time.”

Alsanna stared at her husband and once again found herself lost for words. Once again, she was amazed by the undying faith and love he held for her. This man had made her more than she was destined to be, than she ever thought she could be. He was the one who had taught she could move mountains and rise above her humble beginnings. And now, he had made her a queen once more. 

She believed him now. She believed he was right to put his trust in her. She was so much more than a weak fragment of rampant humanity. With him beside her, she could do anything. Thus, she nodded at him, ready to accept her new fate.

Alsanna no longer protested as he led her back inside the palace flanked by beast and Daedra alike. She allowed him to bring her to the main hall, to a beautiful throne hewn from the same unnatural ice and adorned with ivory. He urged her to move forward and she did, walking ahead of him while he and all other attendants prostrated themselves before her. Touched by this immense gesture, she dared to smile and finally sat upon her new seat of power. Things would never be the same again.


	11. A Wager of Ancestor-Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raime discovers what kind of man he truly is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back at this series again. The first four chapters will be requests and ideas I still wanted to work with from Dark Souls I and II. All chapters after this will only be Dark Souls III characters with the occassional cameo from DSI, DSII or companion series characters from Demon's Souls and Bloodborne.  
> These particular two were requested by user Jaimz.

What was death?

The Knight known as Raime felt it had always been such a senseless question. Certainly, the people around him had plenty of ideas. Some said the gateway to a higher plane, for better or worse. Others said a return to the Abyss, the darkness from which humanity originated. A few even said there was nothing at all and that one’s soul would simply cease to be.

The man known as a rebel and later a traitor honored both those epithets by not caring about the answer. He would die someday, everyone did, and if what came after was terrible, he did not want to spend his life worrying about it. So instead, he worried about earthly matters. Those were often troubling enough as it were.

It was only now, robbed of his position and purpose, his Lady and his life, that he truly thought on it. It turned out that none of the things he heard were right. He had not ceased to be, as he was still conscious. There was no higher plane, good or bad. There was darkness, true enough, but after living his life in the presence of the Abyss, he could tell it wasn’t the safe.

It was simply…nothing and he was lost in a sea of it. 

Perhaps he should feel frightened at the very concept of it. Horrified to be alone in nothingness without beginning or end. Yet he wasn’t. His being was as devoid of anything as the blackness surrounding him. He’d lost it all already. Being here, he didn’t have to worry about losing anything else. 

No, this quiet, infinite dark suited him. He felt at ease wading through it, even when all that greeted him was more of this stagnant oblivion. He had always been comfortable in the unknown and the incomprehensible. This place suited him as well as any other.

So he traveled, on a journey to nothing, surrounded by comfortable silence and those memories in life he had treasured. The day he was knighted. The day he gained his place at King Vendrick’s court. The days he won his most important tourneys. The day he found a new lady to serve.

Especially that last memory brought with comfort. Even now, he thought of sweet Nadalia. The Child of Darkness who shared his loneliness and gave him hope. The soul who gave him a place after he had lost it all, after speaking a truth no one would believe. She too had likely perished as well, killed by the same Undead as he was. Part of him wondered if perhaps her soul had entered the void as well...

That question haunted him more than he wanted to admit. It kept him moving, questioning as he slowly made the darkness his own. Time became utterly meaningless in this place without night or day and as he felt himself acclimate to this place, he felt content to walk forever. Either until he found Nadalia once more or simply ceased to be.

Yet he did not.

One day, after perhaps months or years or centuries, there was a change in the emptiness. It was so sudden that he initially barely noticed, but after a while, he noticed the darkness no longer felt so vast and what was once a lifeless vacuum started squirming with life. What was once an open space was turning into a corridor. A long hallway, with a light at the end. 

Raime approached, for no other reason than his own curiosity, until the darkness ended and the light was all there was. The next thing he knew, he was bathed in it and it was the most overwhelming thing he had felt in a while. It blinded his eyes after so long, but when he finally adjusted, he could only gape in awe. 

In front of him was a space unlike anything he had ever seen. He was in what looked like a giant throne room, but it was unlike anything he had ever seen. The two thrones in there were huge and made of beautiful materials he had never seen before. There were no roof or walls, only a sky filled with stars, strange planets and comets in every color imaginable surrounding him on all sides. The floor seemingly made of the thinnest glass and below that layer, a strange, unknown world seemed to be calling. He felt like he was at the very center of the universe and that notion alone was humbling and awe-inspiring.

The raven knight was so entranced by the sight that he didn’t even realize he was not alone. Another figure was in the room, just as captivated by the new, strange place surrounding him. Yet when that fascination ended and the two of them finally looked each other in the eye, Raime felt a snarl well up in his throat.

“You…”

The other man shared his sentiment. Without thinking, Velstadt raised his giant mace, his face drawing into a sneer behind his helmet. The dark-clad man responded in kind, raising his two swords. Seeing what happened the last time they met, he didn’t intend to show the man any mercy. 

“Stand down! The both of you!”

Two booming voices shook the area and it was enough to snap both men out of their murderous tendencies. The both of them looked up and where the thrones were previously empty, there were now two giant beings sitting in them. One was a strange man with golden skin, hair and eyes, a long thin face and pointed ears. The other was barely a man at all, instead a horrific combination of human and bull, terrifying to behold. 

Raime was frozen as he watched these beings and from the corner of his eye, he could see Velstadt was equally cautious. Just who were these beings? More importantly, just what did they intend to do with them? Gathering his wits, he spoke.

“Who art thou?”

The golden man spoke first. “I am Phynaster, the Hero-God of Elvenkind.” 

The bull-man followed suit. “I am Morihaus, the Hero-God of Mankind. Velstadt the Royal Aegis, Raime the Raven Knight. We have brought you here for a most important task.”

The two knights stared at each other, uncertain and cautious, as Phynaster continued. “You are in Aetherius, the Immortal Plane where souls go after they perish. At least, most of them.”

Morihaus chimed in. “Inverse of us is Oblivion. A strange realm, of change and chaos. Recently, it has changed once more and we fear it possible that a potential threat has risen. A new being, named Alsanna, has taken control of a plane now named Wintertide.”

Raime could only feel confusion at those words and Velstadt clearly felt the same as he responded. “I know not of this being called Alsanna. What is it thou wantest of us? How could be possibly help thee?”

Both ancestor-gods smiled and suddenly, an object appeared in the space. A thick, crystalized blackness so dark that it seemed to bore into one’s very soul. Something stirred within the raven knight all of a sudden and before he thoroughly realized it, his mouth opened.

“Nadalia…”

“Nashandra…”

Raime froze, hearing Velstadt’s voice echo his own and it chilled him to the core. If he recognized this darkness as well, then it meant only one thing. Whatever had come to this place was nothing other than a Child of the Abyss. 

A faint flicker of fear settled in his body. He had been willing to serve Nadalia, but she was barely a shadow of her former self. She was a weak, broken specter, not capable of harming or corrupting anyone in an abandoned kingdom that already brought itself to ruin. Yet somehow, he felt sure this world was not a dead ruin and this Daughter of Darkness not a remnant of her old self. He thought of Shulva and of Drangleic and Velstadt’s blindness to the fate of both these cities. How could he not be afraid?

He felt these ancestor-gods were too, even if they didn’t show it. His mind was racing and he was getting an inkling of just why he and the Royal Aegis were summoned here. The deities confirmed it soon enough, as Phynaster spoke..

“The inhabitants of Aetherius would like to know if this Alsanna is a threat to our existence. We agreed that it was best to send souls who bore a similar…corruption.”

The black knight could practically see Velstadt’s jaw clench from where he stood. Accusing a cleric of corruption of any kind was always guaranteed to incite anger. He just prayed his former compatriot was smart enough not to do anything rash. As of now, he didn’t feel like trying to test the might of actual Gods. 

Morihaus chuckled. “However, the Elven god and I could not agree on who is more suited for the job. A cleric, valiant and faithful? Or a rebel, vicious and rational? So we have made ourselves a wager.”

Phynaster seemed to express equal mirth. “We will send the both of you to Nirn, as our respective champions. To Morthal, where this strange creature was last sighted. You are to find her, to discern her intentions, so your soul can eternally rest in beautiful Aetherius, in a plane of your choosing. If you fail, your soul will not find rest for another lifetime.”

Now, Morihaus chuckled as well. “What will prevail, we wonder? Honor or pragmatism? What will be the downfall? Blind loyalty or stubborn pride? It will be interesting to see indeed… Go now and may the better man bring victory.”

Just about then, Raime was ready to actually protest. There was no way he had actually agreed to this. All his life, he had fought to be his own man, to do what was right instead of the will of whoever called themselves lord and master. He definitely didn’t consent to being the errand boy of some strange Gods.

Yet if he, or Velstadt, planned to say anything in protest, they never got the chance. The strange light of the space rapidly became brighter, until it completely overwhelmed his vision. An alien, overwhelming force seeped into every inch of his body and, just like that, he could feel his mind go blank.

When he woke up again, groggy and with his head pounding, he was no longer in the chamber and the Gods were gone. Instead, there was just snow and trees, straddled by a pale winter sky. That and cold, the likes he had never felt in either Drangleic or in the forsaken kingdom of the Iron King. 

His teeth chattered, only to feel the flecks of ice lashing his bare skin. His eyes went wide when he realized he was without his beloved black armor, or any other clothing for that matter. He leaped up, feeling only frost, rock and frozen grass underneath his feet. He looked around in alarm, wondering if this was all some kind of tasteless prank, when his eye fell onto something beside him.

Clothes. And a beautiful, black armor.

Without thinking, he reached out for it and started to strap it onto his body. He noted wistfully that it was not his own, though he found it quite splendid. It was made of a strong, black material, decorated with silver engravings. Despite it being foreign to him, it fit him like a glove, which had him wonder. Was this a gift from the Gods who had made him their unwilling champion? Either way, it would suffice as a replacement.

The same went for the weapons. They were made of the same dark metal, with similar silver decorations. The two swords, a greatsword and a regular one, were sharp to the touch and the shield looked like it could stop a battering ram in its tracks. Wherever he was, he realized he could definitely do worse in terms of protection.

It was only then he noticed something else. On the ground was what looked like a pouch, filled with strange coins, and a piece of the crystalized Abyss, a small shard of the chunk the Gods had shown him. Why they had sent it along with him, he didn’t know, but he nonetheless picked it up and pocked it. Who knew, perhaps it would prove useful on his quest. 

That thought brought him some relief, but it quickly disappeared when he noticed something climbing across the hill. His lip drew up into a snarl. Velstadt was dressed in equally strange armor, greenish bronze and decorated with elegant swirls. In his hands, he carried a large warhammer of equally elegant design. The raven knight could see his grip on the weapon tighten. He responded by raising his swords and the two knights stared at each other in tense silence for an awfully long time. 

Eventually, the Royal Aegis spoke. “Thou shouldst learn to finally accept thy better, Raime. I trounced thee back in Drangleic, I could do so again.”

Raime felt the urge to laugh at that declaration. “And a lot of good that hast done thee. Thou won, but Drangleic lost. All because you blindly trusted instead of questioned your King and Queen. How blind art thou, that thou cannot see evil when it stares thee in the face?”

A glare was his answer. “Not as blind as thee. A disgraced rebel and traitor, who willingly chose to serve a child of darkness. Whoever these Ancestor-Gods are, it is beyond me why they chose thee as a champion.”

All that left the black knight’s mouth was a huff. “I could ask the same of thee. But as of now, I have no desire to fight and even less to bicker. These Gods, this Phynaster and Morihaus, put me on a leash I did not agree to. I wish to cut this tie as soon as I can.”

“I have no intention of wasting time on thee either. I intend to carry out my mission and I will to do so without thy assistance or meddling. I am bound for Morthal. It should not be far from here. Go there too if thou so wisheth, but do not cross me.”

The paladin then turned his back on him and walked away and Raime didn’t even want to dignify him with a response. He turned away as well, having made up his mind. He too would travel to Morthal and ask around, see if the local population knew something about this Alsanna and, more importantly, how to reach her. If not, then he would surely find another way to occupy his time. 

Velstadt had been right in one thing at least. There was a town not too far from where he had awoken. He only had get up to climb up the nearest hill to spot it and soon, he was bound for it. It took him only a ten minute walk to reach it, but as soon as he entered it, he could tell something strange was going on.

He could feel the touch of the Abyss upon this place. On several places, dark stone with white veins rose up between the buildings. Flowers of the purest black sprouted up from the earth, as well as trees that carried odd bark and strange fruits. Even the fish gliding through the water sported unusual scales and shapes. Clearly, this town had been the center of some cataclysmic transformation.

Even so, its people and livestock showed no sign of deformity, be it physical or mental. It was a friendly settlement and its citizens seemed curious about him, especially due to his rather imposing height, but harmless. It put him somewhat at ease and he figured he was safe to search for information here. The best way to find that, he assumed, was in a tavern.

Finding one wasn’t too hard. He went up to the very first person he saw and asked for directions. Within moments, he found himself entering in front of Moorside Inn, a cozy but busy establishment serving all kinds of food and drink. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen something so comforting and normal back home in Drangleic. Well, normal except for a creature that reminded him of an ugly Phynaster, bound and gagged in the corner. 

Still, he shrugged off the sight and headed over to the counter. An friendly, dark-skinned woman, who introduced herself as Jonna, was happy to offer him hospitality. For a few coins, he found himself enjoying mead and a salmon steak, freshly caught from the waters of the town. It had been an eternity since the last time he’d eaten so well and after he had sated his appetite, he decided to ask his questions.

“My apologies, Jonna, but do you know anything of a being named Alsanna?”

The innkeeper chuckled. “How could I not? She’s the patron saint of our town. There’s even a statue dedicated to her in the town square.”

Raime only barely kept back a frown. “Patron saint? What is the story behind that?”

He put forth some more coins for a fresh apple, which she happily gave to him. “Six months ago, a terrible evil came upon Morthal. Manus, some call it. It took over everything and everyone and several great heroes came to stop it. Among them was this powerful mage named Alsanna and she vanquished it. It was said that after this, she took Manus’s darkness and left to the Void of Oblivion.”

The rebel knight forgot to eat and drink as he listened to her story. So Manus had managed to reach even this world, ready to plunge it in darkness. Yet this child of darkness, who should have carried out his will, rose against him. She undid his damage and rather than subjugate this world, she left it. It sounded so strange and unlike what he knew of those born of the Abyss.

“So you consider this woman a hero then? Even if she dwells in Oblivion?”

Jonna looked him directly in the eyes. “I know it must sound strange to you, that we consider a being from Oblivion a saint. Perhaps it is. But all I know is that she saved us and ever since, Morthal has returned to life. The things she left us, the saintstone, the blackfrost flowers, the duskfins and the gloomtrees carrying fruits… They bring us healing and our town visitors and wealth. My inn was as good as abandoned before all this and now look at it. Won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Taking another quick swig of his drink, the knight knew it was pointless to further question the good intentions of his target, at least with this woman. It was clear that the people of Morthal didn’t think ill of this creature. If anything, they saw her as a savior. How right there were, of course, remained to be seen. Nashandra too had been praised as a compassionate and righteous queen once…

Gathering his courage, he turned to Jonna again. “This may sound even stranger to you, but what if I wished to visit this Alsanna in Oblivion? To see her with my own eyes? Would you know how to accomplish such a thing?”

Suddenly, he saw how the woman’s eyes widened. She looked around several times, almost as if she were afraid some of her other patrons might have heard. She leaned in closer to him, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“Do you realize just what you ask? Wise people don’t go to Oblivion, at least not voluntarily. And they certainly don’t come back from it.”

He could sense the dread in her voice and he could feel an inkling of worry. Clearly, just mentioning the idea of going to Oblivion caused fear and panic. If anything, judging by this woman’s reaction this place sounded as frightening as the Chasm of the Abyss. Still, knowing he was bound to the Gods who brought him here, he knew he couldn’t give up now. He too started to speak softer, not willing to drop the matter.

“I will take my chances. Please, it is important. I will only ask this of you and then never bother you again.”

There was a short silence between them and all that was heard was the sound of drinking and drunken singing of the patrons in the background. He could see her dark eyes warily dart back and forward once more, quickly serving another mug of meat to a patron beside him. She then turned back to him, her voice wary.

“My brother Falion. He’s a necromancer, skilled in dark arts and fascinated by the realms of Oblivion. He lives on the edge of town. If anyone can help you, it’s him. Except you have not heard this from me.”

Having said this, she turned back to her other chores, clearly wanting to say no more. It didn’t matter to Raime. He had his lead now and knew what to do. To signal his appreciation, he bought some more food, left some extra coin on the counter and thanked her under his breath, before getting up and heading outside. 

After a quick stop be the thaumaturgist’s hut to buy himself some potions and useful trinkets, he soon found the home and knocked on the door. A little girl’s voice told him to come inside, which he did. He found himself face to face with a child, who stared at him curiously before running outside, and, in a corner of the house, a dark-skinned male. Assuming this was Falion, he calmly approached. The man heard him coming, however, and snapped his head in his direction with a sneer.

“If you stand before me to accuse me of sacrificing children, or eating the hearts of the death, you may save your breath. I have done no such thing, nor do I intend to. I simply wish to live my life in peace.”

The man’s viciousness had him take a step back, but he had no intentions of leaving. “I have not come to accuse you of anything. I simply want your help. I want to travel to Wintertide in Oblivion to meet the saint you call Alsanna. Your sister said you could help me with that.”

The necromancer stared at him, surprised for a moment, only for a grin to come onto his face. “Going to Wintertide, eh? You’re the second man today who came to me with such a request. Though the other one left the moment he realized he was dealing with a necromancer. Said he preferred prayers and appeals to Gods. Yet something tells me you are not so picky.”

Without even realizing it, Raime shook his head. So Velstadt had already considered this method as well, but abandoned it. Not surprising. Ever the paladin, avoiding corruption of any kind. He might not be willing to deal with devils, but the raven knight had no such issues. There was work to be done and he didn’t care how it was done, as long as it was effective.

Falion continued. “I think I know of a way. It requires a ritual. Nothing messy, I assure you. Our patron saint dislikes violence or bloodshed. It simply requires void salt and a part of each of the treasures that Alsanna brought to Morthal. I have those in abundance, so we can start right now if you want.”

The knight nodded. His instinct told him that this might be a bad idea. Like many in Drangleic, he was skeptical of magic and made it a point to avoid any that was mired in darkness. Yet he was desperate to complete this task and willing to clutch at any straws offered to him. So he decided to take this risk and suffer the consequences on his own. 

He watched how the mage drew a circle with a square inside of and motioned him to sit in it. He complied and quietly bore witness to how the dark-skinned man laid an item at each intersection of the circle and square and sprinkled the empty places with void salt. A piece of ore. A fruit. A fish. A flower. All of them touched by the Abyss, yet bringing life rather than death. Again, he could not help but wonder. If this worked, then what on earth would he find in that strange place called Wintertide?

Many a dark suggestion entered his mind, but he tried to shrug them all off. He couldn’t turn back anymore. Not now. Not when the necromancer started to chant an ominous sounding prayer. The words were pure, full of pleas for mercy and compassion, yet there was a dark edge to them. He felt them in the depths of his soul, rendering him faint. 

He could feel himself entering a trance of some sort, as if an otherworldly force was pulling him from this world into the next. He closed his eyes and gave in. He focused on the chants as they sounded ever further away and he could feel the cold, chaotic jaws of Oblivion clamp down around him.

When at last the chanting ceased entirely, he finally dared to crack an eye open. He noticed he was no longer in the necromancer’s home. Instead, he was looking at the darkest sky he’d ever witnessed, with a million bright stars and a large moon, and found himself surrounded by ice and snow amidst a thick forest of imposing black trees. A shudder came over him. Wherever he was, it was nowhere near the human plane…

He got up and looked around, quietly relieved that his armor and weapons had come with him into this strange place. Something told him that this was a dangerous place, deceivingly so despite its calm appearance. The dark sky seemed to bear down on him and the shadows of the forests whispered of atrocities hidden there. He would have to do his best not to be caught unaware.

Still, beyond the hostile land, he could also see something else. A building, made of ice and with dark gates, surrounded with strong walls and impenetrable forest on all sides. Raime could only draw a simple conclusion. If this child of the Abyss was anywhere on this odd plane, then it was certainly there.

With that in mind, he started to move. Yet hardly had he done so or the forest in front of him came to life. He gripped his sword, readying himself for a fight, only for a subconscious part of him to urge another tactic. He heeded it and instead, he took shelter beneath some fallen trees to watch his potential foe instead.

Soon enough, a creature appeared from the shadows. The rebel knight’s eyes widened. In front of him was a cat-like being, larger than any he had seen before. Its fur was white as snow, save for a pattern of dark stripes that ran from head to tail. It had immensely large teeth, the fangs long sickles protruding from its mouth, with claws on its feet to match. A strange magic seemed to emanate from it, as if it communed with the frost all around it.

It was as beautiful as it was utterly frightening and Raime got the sinking feeling it was far more at home in this world than he was. That notion kept him from considering attacking it. It didn’t exactly seem friendly and if it had knowledge of the terrain that he didn’t, avoiding it entirely seemed like the wiser option. So he simply waited, watching the animal’s movements with interest. 

He saw how it sniffed the air, almost curiously and he could only hope that it hadn’t somehow caught his scent. Clutching his swords, he remained completely still, cautious to even breath. In reality, he probably only lay there like that for a few moments, but it felt like forever until the giant feline finally lost interest and left. 

The raven knight exhaled before he fully realized it. As he crawled out from his hiding place, he looked around to see if he was indeed truly alone. When this seemed to be the case, he quickly laid out his plan and seeing the circumstances, it was as straightforward as possible. 

He would travel straight to the palace, regardless of any obstacles. He would only rest in sheltered places. He would make no fires or hunt. Yet most importantly, he would prevent a fight in this unknown world if he could.

It was the best he could think of in his current predicament and with that plan in mind, he set off. He simply went straight ahead, to where he could see the palace beyond the trees and the eternal night. He weaved in and out of the shadows, sticking to paths as much as he could. It was not the most eventful of strategies, but it mattered not to him if it meant fulfilling his task alive.

That alone was a challenge in itself. This land was unbearably cold and offered very little reprieve for an unknowing traveler. With every step he took, he could hear the sound of a million strange beings coming from the shadows, slithering through the eternal dark of their Abyssal home. The sounds and the feeling of unknown eyes watching him made him wary and at night, he had a difficult time sleeping.

The cold didn’t help matters either. The snow and frost chilled him to his very core and it wasn’t long before he was aching for a fire. It took him all of his might to remind him that it might attract unwanted attention and instead, he would simply try to keep moving whenever he could. His only consolation was that food was in abundance, in the shape of many mysterious berries that he had tried of desperation and not killed him so far. They provided him some sustenance along with the provisions he’d brought, but hardly enough to actually sate him. 

By the third night of his trek, the knight was tired, shivering and with his food running out. The endless cold was getting to him and for some reason, the palace never seemed to get any closer. It was as if the forest shifted and changed all around him, roots and sheets of ice appearing and disappearing in order to block or divert his path. That in itself was bad enough, were it not for the other effects this world had on him. 

At this point, he was convinced that the Abyss, while not physical harming him, was alive to some extent. It was watching him, whispering to him. It seemed to know all about him. As he walked alone with his thoughts or fitfully dreamed at night, it would remind him of his failures. 

It would tell him of how he had failed his King and Drangleic, too weak to even defeat a blind fool like Velstadt. About how Nadalia was dead because of his incompetence, because he couldn’t vanquish one measly Undead. It would creep up on him, tell him he had only brought others misery and ask him if would not be simpler to lie down and give up, to give himself over to death and then the Dreamsleeve. 

Yet it was that suggestion, whispered in cold and slithery tongues, that suggestion was what kept driving him forward. He’d always been a stubborn man who rarely took advice unless it suited him and he definitely didn’t plan to die alone and forgotten once again. So with every taunt, he marched on, determined to reach that palace of ice at any cost.

So dedicated was he in pushing forward that he barely even noticed a subtle change in the landscape. Still, even his weary eyes eventually noticed the contrast of gilded bronze against white and black. Armor, he knew then, and the first sign of any human life he had seen on this plane. Tired as he was, he forced himself to walk over, only to stare in astonishment when he came closer.

“Velstadt?”

The Royal Aegis didn’t respond. He was not in much of a shape to do so. He lay sprawled on the ground, his Warhammer and a staff beside him, in a patch of black and red snow. His face was pale, almost grayish, the armor on his left side was stained with blood, torn open by what looked like a large set of teeth. It didn’t take much imagination to understand what had happened to him and Raime was certain he was dead until he heard a sudden gasp.

“Please…no more… No more… Just…make it end… I did it… Is that not enough?”

The raven knight frowned. At first, he thought the paladin was speaking to him, but the unfocused look in his eyes begged to differ. Velstadt was staring into space, breathing laboriously. His fingers twitched as he was clutching his wounds and it was clear he was going into shock. Perhaps he too heard the Abyss speak to him or perhaps he was hallucinating.

He would likely not last long. 

That thought caused Raime’s stomach to twist uncomfortably. Why, he wondered? Why should he care? This was the man who had cost him everything. His life in Drangleic and everything he had worked so hard for, all with some dumb, brute strength and mindless faith. Now, that dumb, brute strength and mindless faith would be the end of him, in a place without a king and queen to protect him. 

And yet…

Once upon a time, Velstadt had been his brother. Even if they were as different as night and day, they had shared a common goal and trusted each other blindly. That relationship had turned sour long ago, but even now, the raven knight could not think of being cruel enough to let someone die alone, in a strange and hostile place, forsaken by everyone and everything. No matter how much that person had wronged him. 

Then and there, Raime made his decision. Without thinking, he reached down and grabbed hold of the paladin. He lifted him onto his back, before dragging and carrying him to a nearby clearing with some large rocks. There, he propped him up against the flimsy shelter and started assessing his wounds proper.

He cringed. He wasn’t much of a healer, but even he could tell he was going to bleed out if he didn’t do something fast. For a moment, he hesitated. He knew what he could do to save his life, but it meant breaking an important rule he’d set for himself. He’d have to build a fire. 

His teeth gritted at that notion. All his efforts to be cautious and now he had to throw them to the wind. Even so, he got up and started rushing to the nearby trees, using one of his swords to cut off some dead branches and create some kindling. Within moments, he had a fire going and it was clear that he was not the only one who enjoyed the warmth. He could see Velstadt relax a little, which he figured was just as well. He certainly wouldn’t if he knew what he had planned.

Raime quickly gagged the man with a piece of cloth, pushing some of it into his mouth so he wouldn’t bite his tongue. He then took the smallest of his two swords and held it into the flames. Soon, the metal turned white-hot and he took it out before turning to the wounded man. Taking a deep breath, he walked up, held the flesh of the man’s together as much as he could and then started to sear the wound shut.

The horrific pain was enough to jolt Velstadt back into full consciousness. The royal aegis reared his head, his screams only barely muffled by the cloth. The raven knight had to use all his might to keep him from fighting him off. Eventually, the pain overwhelmed him enough to stop struggling and he slumped back against the rock, allowing Raime to quickly finish his work. 

He then quickly took one of the healing potions he’d bought from his pouch, removed the gag and forced the man to drink it down. From what the thaumaturgist told him, it would speed up the healing process significantly and numb the pain somewhat. For lack of an actual healer, it was the best the rebel could do. 

The potion seemed to work. After a while, some color seemed to return to Velstadt’s face and he was becoming more responsive again. He stirred, clearly looking around to determine where he was. His eyes widened when they finally fell on Raime and the dark-clad knight could see him getting ready to try and spring into motion. 

“Do not move too much. Thou might open the wound again.”

Thankfully, the paladin heeded that advice. He leaned back against the rock, taking a deep breath. No other sound was heard but the howling of the wind and the crackling of the flame, but eventually, he clearly couldn’t help but ask the obvious.

“Why?”

Raime shrugged. “It is a cruel fate to die alone and frightened. I could not wish that upon anyone, not even thou.”

He watched how Velstadt’s mouth opened and closed, unable to think of a proper response. It suited him just fine. Instead, he gathered some nearby snow, threw it into a cup and melted it above the fire. Once it had properly warmed up, he took a few gulps and offered the rest to the royal aegis. The man took it only hesitantly, his voice still very weak.

“Thou should not have saved me…”

The dark-clad man frowned. Was the paladin going to concern himself with honor and conduct, even now? He definitely hadn’t saved him so they could bother maintaining a grudge. Yet what the other man said next surprised him.

“I remember, Raime. Why I came to Drangleic… The Abyss showed me. Like a horrific nightmare long forgotten...”

Now, the rebel listened and the other man continued, fear in his eyes. “She sent me… Elana, the Queen of Shulva. She…she was a child of darkness as well… I saw her true form in the blackness, but I never knew back then… She put a spell on me, sent me to Drangleic as if in a dream… When Shulva was already in her grasp, she had me go to Drangleic… To ensure her sister would succeed as she did...”

Out of nowhere, Raime started to feel cold again and it wasn’t because of the fire. Instead, it felt like all the little pieces in his brain suddenly clicked together, to form the most terrifying image he’d ever seen. An image that suddenly caused a horrific situation to finally make sense.

Velstadt had been blinded, but not necessarily by loyalty. Rather, by the disturbing, deeper workings of the Abyss that he himself only fully understood after meeting Nadalia. This dark, twisted web that Manus had woven spread further than he even knew and even now, that deeply unsettled him. It was nearly enough to break Velstadt, for one.

“Thou wert right, Raime… Thou wert right from the beginning… And I have damned us all…”

The raven knight shook his head, instead slicing off a bit of meat and handing it to the paladin. “Now is not the time to despair, Velstadt. Thou must recover. Please rest, eat. Thou wilt need to regain thy strength so we can leave this wretched place.”

Those sounded like encouraging words to him, but it was clear the royal aegis didn’t agree. “We are not getting out of here. This forest…this plane, there is something wrong with it. It…changes, adapts. The Abyss seems to turn it into an everchanging maze to keep you wandering forever…if the creatures do not kill thee first…”

He said those words with such resignation, such finality that it made Raime’s blood run cold. To hear another confirm that that the changing forest wasn’t just in his head was an unpleasant thought, one that did nothing to ease his already weary and paranoid mind. He watched how Velstadt lowered his head, his voice shaky.

“I thought I could manage. That the light of faith and strength alone could stand against the Dark. I was wrong. The faithful and the strong perish alike when the Abyss arises…”

Raime listened to him in utter silence. He didn’t know what else to do, when nothing he said could actually comfort him. To see Velstadt, stalwart and valiant, so beaten down and willing to give up was enough to break his heart. 

Still, just because the paladin intended to give up, it didn’t mean he would. He was aiming to fulfill his mission and get out of this Wintertide, one way or another. What’s more, he now decided, he was going to make sure the royal aegis made it out with him. He refused to die here, if only to spite this whole damn place and the Gods who sent him here.

That thought strengthened him somewhat, but just as he was about to make this declaration to the wounded man, a sound got his attention. Immediately, he grabbed his weapons and turned in the direction of the noise. It looked like his worst fear had come true. His fire had attracted enemies.

A deep growling was heard from the shadows and he spied faint but large shape stalking through the trees. His heart started racing. He already had an inkling of what was lurking there and he already knew this was going to be ugly. 

It was only mere seconds after thinking it that the large cat-like creature emerged from its hiding place. It walked up to him, sniffing the air and ears twitching. Its maw was bloodied and Raime didn’t doubt that it was Velstadt’s. No doubt the thing was back for more.

The raven knight locked eyes with the creature’s crystal blue ones, analyzing its every move. Every muscle in his body was wound tight, ready to anticipate an attack. He was tired, sore and disorientated, but he was not simply going to lie down and die to an oversized cat. 

Time slowly ticked by and the creature still didn’t attack. It simply stared at him, its body language rather relaxed, with obvious intelligence in its eyes. He swore it could see into his very soul, but rather than hunger or murderous intent, he saw calmness and caution. Even…curiosity.

Did it want to attack him at all, he then wondered? Or was it merely interested in new visitors to its world? Had it perhaps approached Velstadt with similar intent and had the knight attacked it, causing it to retaliate? The idea seemed rather absurd and yet, he couldn’t help but wonder. Surely, it sensed how tired he was or that his companion was helpless. If it hadn’t attacked by now, then perhaps it simply had no reason to.

Acting on that hunch, Raime quietly dropped his swords and waited. The feline immediately noticed and bounded over, until there was only an inch between it and him. He felt its whiskers against his face, heard its nostrils flare as it took in his scent. It let out a soft chuffing noise and as the raven knight slowly reached out to place a hand on its head, it didn’t seem to mind. 

Then, without warning, it pulled away again and turned around, leaping back into the dark forest without looking back. The rebel could hear it roar in the distance, but it soon seemed to get further away. Within moments, the woods returned to their eerie quiet and he found himself exhaling again. 

He couldn’t believe his gamble had actually paid off. The creature had not been aggressive and actively chose to let them be. That was better than he had hoped for and it gave him just the tiniest measure of reassurance that perhaps this world wasn’t entirely hostile to him. That thought encouraged him, enough to feel that he and the wounded paladin might survive. 

He quickly glanced over his shoulder, glad to see that the other man was still alive. They would likely have to spend the night here, at least until the royal aegis was capable of walking again. He could deal with that, he figured, seeing that hostile wildlife was off his list of worries. Yet just as he was about to pick up his weapons and join Velstadt again, another sound came from the shadows. 

This time, however, Raime was quite certain it was not a wild animal coming for them. It sounded like footsteps, countless of them, marching like one in his direction. He could hear the clanking of weapons, the clicking of heavy armor. It echoed from all around the clearing and when he saw shadows of spears and swords, the black-clad knight knew they were as good as surrounded.

Within seconds, ivory knights started to appear, their armor shimmering in the moonlight. Their faceless helmets turned to him and they raised their weapons as they approached. There was something creepily languid about their movements, as if they had encountered intruders in these woods many times before and dispatched them with ease. Their numbers only added to that perceived strength and it was then and there that Raime knew that he’d have a nigh impossible battle on his hands. 

“Run!”

Velstadt’s ragged, panicked voice had him glance over ever so briefly. The paladin was leaning on his warhammer, trying to stand. He was gritting his teeth, the wound at his side opening again and trickling blood. Nevertheless, he tried his best to keep his composure, willing himself to do something despite his injuries rendering him weak.

“I cannot follow, Raime! Let them have me! Then thou mayest stand a chance! Just flee! Let me atone for my mistakes!”

The rebel knight fought not to scream at him for being such a fool. Even know, he was playing the selfless heroic cleric. He didn’t just save his life only for him to die an hour later! 

He almost laughed at himself for thinking in that way. Velstadt was only trying to help, of course, in the self-sacrificing way expected of his kind. All to atone for wronging him and ensuring he could perhaps get away and fulfill their mission. 

It was not a bad idea. He surely would have taken him up on it once, not out of honor but pragmatism and his desire to live. Yet now, he found he couldn’t. He couldn’t sacrifice another for such a slim chance of survival, have them die needlessly to save his own skin. They would share the same fate, even if it was likely death on this hostile plane…

Unless…

He looked at his adversaries again, trying to discern their intentions. They stared back, moving slowly and weapons still at the ready, calmly studying his movements. Ready to act, but hesitant to make the first move. Powerful, but not quick to resort to it. It was interesting, to say the least, especially seeing how they outnumbered him and could easily hurt him. Could it be, he wondered, that this place gave what it got and there knights had a lot in common with the cat?

It was then and there that Raime the raven knight decided. To gamble, like he had done with the giant feline. He did what Velstadt would have done and instead decided to have faith. He got onto his knees, holding up his empty hands. 

“I yield.”

This declaration of surrender, shouted on top of his lungs, brought the incoming knights to a halt. Their march stopped and those at the front lowered their weapons somewhat. He feel them stare at him from behind their helmets. Clearly, they were wondering what to do next and he capitalized on it by stating his intentions. 

“Please, heed me. I mean no harm to thy Lady or this world. I am merely looking for answers about thy Lady. I served her sister once. Her name was Lady Nadalia.” 

Almost immediately, he could feel a sense of shock come over the soldiers. They looked at him and then at each other. They knew that name, he realized, and that made him push on. He could not give up now. For his sake and Velstadt’s. 

“Even if thou wilt grant me no answers, then please aid me. My compatriot…he’s badly injured. He needs help. I beg of thee…”

There was nothing but silence as his words were carried on the cold, icy winds. As he sat there, on his knees in the snow, he’d never felt so small and so desperate. He was at the mercy of these strange beings, all to save his own hide and that of the man who had once betrayed him.

Then, after several moments, one of the knights stepped forward. He walked up to him, carefully looking over as he sat knelt at his feet. Raime could only wait, desperately fighting the urge to snatch up his weapon and fight. Yet he knew he would not get far, even without Velstadt, and so, he could only wait.

Then, the white knight reached out and the rebel knight was stunned as he was lifted onto his feet, a friendly voice being his answer. “Follow us.”

Those words, spoken as an offer of friendship and peace, were all he needed. He grabbed that hand, as if his life depended on it and not his companion’s. He scrambled up, quickly picking up his weapons and sheathing them. He looked over his shoulder and saw how two other soldiers picked up Velstadt, making him lean on them for support. The one beside him spoke again. 

“We shall bring you to our Lady, so you may ask her your questions and she will see to your fate.”

He nodded, meek for once and knowing that this was not the time for pride. Instead, he did as he was told, following the knights through the endless dark forests. They weaved their way through the thick snow and trees without effort, knowing the way without a path in sight. Their guidance was a flame in the darkness and despite that darkness being the Abyss, he now felt oddly at ease.

It took but an hour for these beings to lead him to that elusive palace, that he always saw on his journey but could never reach. Now, he was entering its gates, made of the darkest wood and ice that never seemed to melt. Even he was taken aback by the sight of such unearthly splendor, enough that the soldiers had to remind him to keep walking. There, Velstadt was separated from him and the soldier assured he’d see him again after the audience and, hopefully, in a much better state. 

Soon, he was led to a throne room filled with odd beings, including the cat he’d seen before, and at the end of the giant hall, he could finally see the purpose of his visit. Not the man, likely her King, on a throne of equal stature, but the one beside him. Seated on a beautiful throne, clad in the Abyss itself, sat a beautiful woman. Her skin was as pale as her hair was dark and she gazed at him with icy blue eyes. Even from where he stood, he could sense the Abyss on her and as he was put in front of her, the first thing he did was kneel. 

“Rise, visitor.”

The woman’s voice was calm but warm, strong unlike Nadalia’s faint whispers had been. Still, it emanated a sense of power that intimidated even him. Raime was no fool when it came to discerning who was in control. Her husband might share an equally splendid throne beside her, but it was she who truly held sway over this realm. So he waited politely for her to speak again.

“My servants say you came here to find me. To ask for an audience.”

Seeing his chance, the knight nodded. “Indeed I am. My compatriot Velstadt and I were sent here by the Gods Phynaster and Morihaus. Against our will, but sent nonetheless. Stories of thy deeds at Morthal have spread even to Aetherius and these beings wish to know of thy motivations.”

Instantly, he could hear murmurs all across the hall. He saw how the child of darkness leaned over to her husband and the saw how the two of them conversed in hushed tones. The same went for the knights and for a moment, Raime prayed this fragment of the Abyss was indeed so merciful as the people in Morthal claimed. Then, she smiled, genuine and polite. 

“Of course, I should have expected that. It is not that I fear or despise the Aedra and Daedra of this world. It is rather that the Abyss is a dangerous thing and I prefer the realm that contains it to be left alone. I take it you and your companion understand that better than any other.”

He nodded. Indeed he did. He had already feared for this world the moment he entered. Still, his gut told him that Alsanna was sincere about keeping to herself and containing the Abyss to this plane. That was a relief, if he could communicate that to the Gods who sent him at least.

The child of the Abyss, however, was already ahead of him. “Still, Phynaster and Morihaus judged wisely in sending you to me. Those who know a threat always tread more cautiously. I will send my response accordingly. I will give you and Velstadt a token to give to your masters, to convince them of my peaceful intentions.”

Raime bowed his head to communicate consent. “I thank thee, my Lady.”

She smiled again, more beautiful than before, only to quickly turn serious. “Now, my knights have told me that you served my sister Nadalia. Were you the knight that served her until the end? The knight who saw my sister Nashandra for what she was? Sir Raime?”

Those words, said with so much certainty, caused him to grow cold. He stared at her, mouth agape behind his helmet and a sense of dread and shame overtook him. She knew, both of him and of his failure. He bowed his head. 

“Indeed I did. I will not express regret for opposing Nashandra, but I will for Nadalia. I was with her, protected what was left of her with my life. She is gone now, killed by an undead. I failed to protect thy sister, my Lady, and for that I am deeply sorry.”

Again, it was quiet in the throne room. All eyes were on him and the raven knight wished he could just sink into nothingness. He felt like a failure and his inadequacy was on display for everyone to see. 

Suddenly, there was the sound of footsteps. He could feel how the beings in the room turned away from him to the throne and he followed suit. He sucked in a shocked breath as he saw Alsanna had risen from her throne and calmly walked down the stairs. She stood in front of him and then, gently, lay her hand on his shoulder. 

“Do not blame yourself, Sir Raime. By the time you found her, Nadalia lived in agony. Her life had become a living nightmare when she could not fulfill her purpose. I saw her memories when I vanquished my father and you were the only good thing in it. She was fond of you, in her own way. You stayed by her until her suffering finally ended. She could not have asked for more.”

She spoke with so much conviction and gentleness that even Raime’s cold and cynical heart could not help but listen. Here was a woman who should hate him, berate him for his actions. Yet here she stood, like a being of mercy rather than a creature of darkness and actually forgiving him. It was too much for him to take and yet she insisted. 

“You did what was right. As a knight of Drangleic, my sister’s keeper and Velstadt’s savior. You may not think it, but you are a good man. Do not let your mistakes weigh you down.”

Her felt how her hands, slender and small yet so full of strength, took his and by a strength not his own, he rose. He found this Queen of Wintertide, this child of darkness who had become something more, smiling. As her husband joined her and they exchanged another glance, the raven knight felt something he had not shared with another for a long time. Understanding and contrition. 

“Come. Rest in my home. Be my guest for a while, at least until your companion heals. You have carried your burdens valiantly. Now, you may reap your reward before you return.”

After all that was said, he could not even think of turning down that request. “It would be my pleasure, Lady Alsanna.”

And thus, for the next few days, Raime the raven knight was the guest of Alsanna of the Wintertide. He and Velstadt ate at her table and when the latter was healing from his injuries, they explored the palace. They heard the story of Manus invading Morthal firsthand and learned many more things about the nature of the Abyss. 

Particularly Velstadt was pleased to hear that Alsanna and her husband the Ivory King intended to seek for the souls of Vendrick and others who were lost to the children of the Abyss. Perhaps, they hoped, they could still find them and give them sanctuary in this realm, to make peace with what had happened. They were not certain if they would succeed, but they were willing to try was encouraging enough.

Eventually, however, the time came for the two knights to once again leave Oblivion to Aetherius. They were led to one of the rare portals on the plane and Alsanna wished them well, wherever their road would lead them. Raime, as well as Velstadt, returned the greeting, before stepping through the gate, hopefully back to Nirn.

Unfortunately, his prayers were not answered. Rather than the snowy forest surrounding Morthal, the raven knight found himself back in a familiar space. One where the light was celestial and the universe was sprawling out all around them. Again, he found himself standing between two large thrones and met with two familiar faces, ones radiating immense approval.

Morihaus spoke first. “Well done, Raime. You have exceeded my expectations. Not only did you return alive, you returned intact. So tell us, what did you manage to find?”

The rebel knight’s expression swiftly turned dark. If he already suspected that he was expendable to this deities, he certainly felt he was now. Especially after the kindness and hospitality he was shown in Oblivion, this rubbed him the wrong way. Still, he kept his composure, reminding himself that soon, this would all be over.

He took the token, two beautiful small statues of saintstone and presented it to the Gods. “Lady Alsanna of the Wintertide sends thee her regards and an offering of peace. She wishes those in Aetherius well and has no designs but to keep Nirn and other realms safe from the Abyss.”

The gods took the tokens, studying them carefully. In the meantime, the knight exchanged glances with the paladin. He could sense unease in the other man and he definitely shared that feeling. After all they had gone through, they dreaded whatever else powerful beings could hold over their heads.

Phynaster then spoke up. “This was not what we expected… Nonetheless, we thank you, Raime. You have performed admirably. You shall have your reward.”

Morihaus laughed, his odd bull-like voice bellowing through the face. “Indeed. You may enter eternity, to a paradise of your choosing.”

Soon, the world around him shifted, showing portals to many a strange place and Phynaster spoke. “So where do you wish to be, brave warrior? To ascend to Aetherius itself as a higher being? To drink and feast among the hallowed warriors of Sovngarde? The Far Shores as Tu’whacca would surely accept you? Take your pick and eternity shall be yours.”

Somewhere deep down, Raime figured he should be happy. After all, the idea that there was something good waiting after death should be comforting, especially after everything he’s suffered in life. The fact that he was allowed to choose should sweeten the deal even more. Instead, all he could think of was to glance at his compatriot. 

“What of Velstadt?”

Morihaus shook his head, almost mournfully. “He failed us. He would not have even returned alive were if not for you.”

Phynaster nodded sagely. “He will be sent to the Dreamsleeve. There, he will be reborn and then made to roam Nirn once more until he has deemed himself worthy of his own place in Aetherius.”

Raime swore he could feel the paladin’s fear at this statement and an unpleasant feeling started to settle in his own stomach, especially when Morihaus casually continued. “So what will it be, Raime? Where will you choose your soul to rest?”

The raven knight remained silent at that. He looked from side to side, looking at each god and weighing his choices. His mind raced and once again, he found himself at a crossroads. After all, how should one choose when you were saved and another was damned?

Raime had never cared much about a knight’s honor or loyalty or any of those lofty ideals and oaths those serving a king had to swear. He never believed in blind loyalty to Gods or Kings, whom he felt could be blind and fallible like everyone else. Vendrick had been as had Nadalia and so had he been, a mere knight, wrapped up in his pride and self-righteousness. Velstadt was no different and by now, he was tired of seeing people pay for it.

That thought shaped his decision and with his mind made up, he turned back to the two deities. They might have some power of creation, but his mind was his own and he was not so small-minded as to see the world in black and white. They gave him two choices, but he had settled on another entirely. 

“I do not feel my soul needs rest. Nor would I want it to be at the cost of another. So I ask for life instead of the afterlife.”

He felt how both Gods turned at him and for the first time, those ancient, sage faces were marked with astonishment. So was Velstadt’s. If anything, it almost felt as if the universe itself had gone quiet for the briefest of moment, ever eye in existence drawn to him. It mattered not if it were true, for all that mattered was the verdict of the two beings in front of him. 

“I choose none. I want no reward, but mercy for mine brother and a chance at life on Nirn for both of us until old age returns us to Aetherius.”

It took several more moments before Morihaus spoke. “Do you realize what you refuse? You could be free of all your burdens, never to be plagued by sickness, pain or death again.”

Raime nodded. “I know. But I have unfinished business in life, redemption I have to attain. And I want nothing gained over the backs of others. So, will thy grant this wish? For I will gladly wait my turn for a paradise if it means mercy for another.”

Still, the Gods stared. They looked at each other and then back at him as if he was the most singular, unusual being in all of existence. Almost, he realized as if a plea of mercy for one’s adversaries was so rare they needed to drink in every moment of it. Then, a smile came to their faces.

Phynaster nodded in approval. “You are truly a remarkable man, Sir Raime. Very well then, we will grant your wish. May you and Velstadt find what you look for, in a world that has broken and made many.”

The raven knight nodded and just then, a light enveloped him and Velstadt once more. He glanced at the paladin one last time, giving him an encouraging nod behind his helmet as he prepared for the inevitable. Soon, he felt a familiar lightheadedness come over him and he could feel his soul leave Aetherius, hopefully to not see it again in a long time. 

When he came to again, he was greeted by flakes of snow, falling from the sky. He sat up, almost gleeful to feel the familiar frosty cold of this Nirn again. He calmly leaned on his knees, waiting for the dizziness to pass and almost relishing how his chest hurt with every frosty breath he took. 

He was back. Back in the world of the living. To carve out a path of his own, away from a world that constantly struggled between dark and light. The idea alone was enough to excite him and as he slowly rose to his feet on unsteady legs, he noticed a pleasant absence of uncertainty he hadn’t felt the first time here. At least this time, he noted with no small amount of relief, he’d kept all his armor. 

It didn’t take long for him to recognize where he was. The woods near Morthal, the small town waiting for him within walking distance. The thought of returning there made him smile. It would be an excellent starting point for an interesting new adventure…

It was only then that he realized he was once again not alone. Beside him, still disorientated and clutching his legs, was Velstadt. Worried, Raime walked over and when the other knight remained unresponsive, he put a hand on his shoulder. 

The paladin jerked, before looking up at him. When their eyes met, the raven knight could see a plethora of emotions in the other man’s gaze. Fear. Uncertainty. Grief. Remorse. Yet most of all, he swore he could see guilt.

When his former comrade spoke, he sounded firm but Raime could sense a sliver of sadness. “Dost thou realize what thou hast forsaken?”

The rebel calmly nodded. “I know. It was not worth attaining. Not if I had to sacrifice another for it.”

Almost immediately, the man shook his head furiously. “I do not deserve that kindness. I was blind and deaf to thee when thy spoke reason. I had thee sent away from Drangleic when it needed thee most. I am not worth throwing away a paradise for, especially not to thee…”

All Raime did was stood by as the Royal Aegis rambled on, his voice coming apart with each word spoken. Once again, his heart was stirred with pity. They had made mistakes, the both of them, each of them falling victim to their own shortcomings. Both wanting to be heard, without actually listening and speaking without desiring a response. Now, once again, the divide between their views was expressed in words. 

Yet sometimes, words didn’t mean half as much as actions did. 

With a smile, Raime held out his hand. He could practically see Velstadt flinch in response when he noticed, staring up at him with utter hesitant. The raven knight simply shook his head and offered it again.

It took several moments before the paladin finally made the decision to take it. The rebel then proceeded to pull him to his feet, helping him stand. He cared not for the other man’s baffled expression, feeling no regret or hesitation. He had chosen today and where there was pride and anger before, there was now forgiveness.

He nodded at Velstadt, the man whom he once again considered a brother. A wordless plea to bury the hatchet for good. The man returned it, almost shyly, and the raven knight then turned to the path in front of him. The path to Morthal. To a place where a cold drink and a warm bed awaited and a world beyond that, filled with new marvels for him to find. He knew now who he was, his failures and his successes, and at long last, he could be at peace with them and start over.

“Come, my brother. Rise. Let us find redemption and peace, whichever way we seem fit. Seek a new path, either by mine side or alone. Whatever this life may be, let it not be tainted by grudges from the previous one.”


	12. Forgotten, Forlorn and Forsworn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quelaag finds her way once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we continue into this crossover, we are slowly moving into the range of more obscure gods of the Elder Scrolls lore. I never really expected this series to be as popular as it did and people wanting to see stuff beyond the original 6-part entry. So I'll make due with what I have. In this entry, I figured I could get away with really obscure ones like Shagrath or Arius since it's not really known which "Old Gods" the Reachmen worship, aside from Daedra.  
> Additionally, it's also not known which Daedric Prince Hagravens call on to transform or how the ritual works. The Skyrim quest "Repentance" indicates it requires a skeever corpse, soul gems and a human sacrifice, but gives no further details. I went with Hircine here since the Glenmoril Witches, Hagravens themselves, seem associated with him and he's the Father of Manbeasts, which made him a logical fit for turning into a half-avian creature.  
> Lastly, I always assumed the Fair Lady's hair had turned white thanks to her disease. Both Quelaag and Quelana's in-game models have dark hair, so that seems to be the status quo.  
> As for the names of all of the Chaos Sisters and Ceaseless Discharge: aside from Quelaag and Quelana, semi-canon and fanon sources gives the names of the Fair Lady as Quelaan and the Daughter of Chaos as Quelaana. So for naming the others, I just stuck with the root "Quela-" and went from there.

When Quelaag was a little girl, she would often dream about fire. About a beautiful flame, flickering in many bright colors. One so bright, so powerful and alluring that one could not see anything beyond it. 

As a born Witch, familiar with pyromancies, she would always reach out to touch it. To hold it in her hand, to shape it to her will and make it into a bright beacon. Yet as soon as she had it within her grasp, it would overwhelm her. It would melt her flesh, consume her to the bone and it always ended up with her jolting awake, covered in sweat. 

One would think that such nightmares would cease once they were dead, especially when it had already come to pass, but the Chaos Witch wasn’t that lucky. She didn’t stay dead. She was forced to keep on living and as of late, the nightmare returned, only worse.

She’d had it just the day before and something deep inside her told her this was no coincidence. It was because of all of this, she was certain. Because of this world and the situation she had been caught up in. Perhaps it was trying to tell her that she should not go through with the ritual. Perhaps, she should not become a Hagraven.

Here she was now, having traveled all the way out to Riften and to the Darklight Tower. Here, witches such as herself would go when their elders, the Hags and Hagraven, deemed them worthy of joining their ranks. To become the venerated matriarchs of the Reachmen, the Forsworn, the people who had taken her in as their own. A great honor, she was assured, but as of late, doubt had sunk in. 

Even now, she was not quite certain just how she had ended up here. When she died at the hands of that Undead, she thought it would be over. A swiftly, agonizing end to a difficult life, with the last thought going through her head the worry for her little sister. After all, who would care for sick little Quelaan once she was gone?

That question haunted her, even as her world turned black. Even when she realized her spirit didn’t give out. The world ceased to be, but she didn’t and soon, she was alone in darkness, haunted by her failures and the loved ones she lost. 

Her mother, the Witch of Izalith, twisting into the Bed of Chaos and her sisters Quelara and Quelaas becoming her fuel, guarded by her corrupted sister Quelaana. Her sister Quelaya sacrificed on an altar in a last effort to stop the madness and the weeping of her deformed brother Quelarr, wracked with pain. Her sister Quelana fleeing and the horror she and her little sister Quelaan underwent as they fled to Blighttown and how her little sister was slowly dying. 

All these visions followed her, no matter how far she ran. No matter how much she screamed and begged for it to end. Yet the visions would not let up, hunting her through an infinite void. One that nipped at her heels with every step, creeping of further and further, biting into her spidery legs until finally, she could move no more and nothingness overtook her. 

Eventually, there was no fire or darkness, no faces of loved ones or enemies. There were only the silken threads of a web that spread as far as the eyes could see. It should not have scared her. In fact, her arachnid body was well at home walking the wires, to wander forever suspended above a bottomless pit. Yet whatever sense of comfort she might have felt vanished the moment she realized she was not alone.

There was something else in that web. A gigantic creature. A spider, so eldritch and twisted-looking, words failed her to describe it. She knew right away that it had been attracted by the vibrations her movements caused in its web. It rushed over, scurrying as swiftly as spiders could and one look at it, Quelaag could tell it was hungry.

She screamed in vain as the arachnid descended on her, tearing into the Chaos Spider that formed the lower part of her body. Searing pain wracked her body and she could only cry out in agony as large, poisonous jaws sank into her midriff. She could feel the abomination weave its silk around her, only to tear her upper body from the flesh it was encasing and the last thing she felt was being flung from the web, into the chasm below, to forever be swallowed by darkness. 

When she had awoken, however, the void had been gone. She had woken up on solid, earthlike ground, with rough-spun clothes scratching her skin, steel bars encircling her from every side and people with strange headdresses watching her. That alone was enough to scare her, but it quickly turned to sheer terror and confusion when she found herself looking down on a normal pair of legs. 

The discovery had left her shocked and confused, more than a little frightened as well. As she ran her hands down them, wondering if she was still in some kind of bizarre dream. She tried to stand, but instead she wobbled and had to cling to the bars for support. Meanwhile, her mind raced. Just what was happening to her.

She didn’t get the time to process it. Soon, the people watching her pulled her out of the cage and dragged her off. She screamed, she fought, she begged them to tell her who they were and where she was, but they didn’t relent. Instead, they forced her on a chair in a forgotten corner of the strange cave they were in and a man approached her. 

He said his name was Madanach and that she had found him. He’d asked her who had sent her, what she was paid and what she knew of the positions of Markarth’s soldiers. She could only stare at him in confusion, telling that she didn’t understand and those names didn’t say anything to her. 

They didn’t believe her. They called her an Imperial, a spy. A toady of one Igmund sent to infiltrate them with a sob story. That they were a lot smarter than that and would get the information out of her by any means necessary. 

How long the interrogation lasted, she didn’t know. But she could see light turn to dark and then light again through the opening in the cave, her only indication of the passing of time. As they pressed for information, she stuck to her story and her fear slowly gave way to determination and anger. When a few of Madanach’s men suggested torture, she rolled her eyes and told them it would be a waste of their time.

This only seemed to infuriate them even more, but by now, Madanach seemed rather intrigued by how strangely calm she remained. He hushed his fighters and instead started to question her about the way they found her, naked and unconscious at the Juniper Shrine. It was a place where there once stood a shrine of the Spider God Shagrath before the Nords destroyed it. Those words stirred something in her and she decided to mention the nightmare of the eldritch spider, as well as Izalith. Clearly, she sounded sincere enough, because the man’s fighters were slowly coming to the conclusion her story was far too bizarre to be that of a spy or mole.

Eventually, Madanach, either bemused or intrigued by her tale, asked her if she had anywhere to go. When she asked about all the places she knew of and he answered he knew none such lands, she stated she had not. He then told her that she looked strong and passionate and that perhaps, she would feel well at home with his people. The Forsworn, the native Reachmen who were outcasts in their own land. 

Quelaag had readily joined them. Her main reason had been that she didn’t know what else to do, but part of her had been attracted to their ancient and tribal ways, that felt strangely close to the fiery chaos of Izalith. She had dedicated herself to learning about these fascinating people, wishing to integrate herself as quickly as possible.

She had succeeded well enough. The Forsworn liked her and her combat abilities, as well as her desire to understand rather than judge them. The Nords and Imperials had never done such a thing, they told her, instead seeing them as savages to drive off their own ancestral lands and use as slaves. They told her the tales of their cruelty and even as a former Chaos Witch, they stunned her. Soon, she could understand them well enough and she was determined to make the best of her new life with them. She partook in many raiding and spying missions, though eventually, she settled on what she always did best: magic.

When it turned out she had a penchant for the magic of this world, she was quickly taken under the wing of the Forsworn’s shamans. There, she was taught all kinds of spells, fire, frost and lightning magic, and when she mastered them all in a startlingly short time, Madanach had an even greater plan in mind for her. He would send her to Dead Crone Rock, to become part of the witch’s coven there.

The former Chaos Witch had greedily jumped at the opportunity. After all, a witch was what she had been her entire life. It was something she knew she could do and after being trapped in the misery of Blighttown for so long, she longed to see a world less wretched and hungered for new knowledge. So she accepted and soon, she was happily welcomed to Dead Crone Rock.

The witches and hags taught her many things. Strange and bizarre forms of magic, lost to all but those who were native to the Reach. She was taught to brew strange potions and poultices. She learned about the magic of taproot and how to harvest it from captured Spriggans. When she advanced enough, she even learned the art of how to bring back a dead man better and stronger, by replacing his human heart with a briarheart seed. 

Her efforts greatly pleased Drascua, the leader of her coven. She was the first Hagraven the witch had met and she would have found her unsettling were it not for her own time bound to a spider’s body. She was a strange mix of raven and human, capable of magic unlike anything Quelaag had ever seen. The avian woman told her that she too could attain that kind of power. She was powerful, more so than many of the Witches and Hags that had served them for years, and she was proving herself more than worthy for the ritual. Soon, she told her, she would be ready and then she would go back to help Madanach with his war on the Nords. 

Madanach, the man who had given her a home. Who taught her about this strange world she had landed herself in. In whom she confided about her lost siblings and mother and who believed her, or at least listened to her, as she shared her sorrows over the fall of Izalith and helped her move on. She owed everything to him; it was only fitting for her to pay him back somehow.

That should have made her happy. After all, it was good to have found a new home, have her old body back and to be surrounded people who didn’t fear her. Yet the more immersed she became in this strange world of the Forsworn, the more her doubts grew as well. Things were not nearly as simple as she thought.

Many times now, she had visited the many settlements around the Reach, such as Markarth and Karthwasten. She had learned many things there, about the Nords as well as the Reachmen who refused to join Madanach’s cause. Her work as a spy gave her many opportunities to talk to them, as well as have access to diverse literature on its people and she had learned a great many things that the leader of the Forsworn had never told her. 

The Reachmen, contrary to what she was told, were never a united people. A people of Breton and Nord descent, they were competing tribes, often warring with outsiders and with each other. A brutal people, who had not fought every battle out of self-defense. In fact, not all of them were particularly fond of the Forsworn either, describing them as terrorists willing to kill their own kin for speaking out against their ways. They had no love for anyone, not even those neutral to their designs. And while some accounts claimed that their rule of Markath several years ago was a peaceful one, the conquest itself had been a bloody affair. It was eventually taken back by one Ulfric Stormcloak, a revolutionary leader who had recently died, but when the Jarl came to them to negotiate for peace, they murdered him in cold blood.

All this information had her think and with every new bit of history she got her hands on, she started to doubt whether she was doing the right thing. Were the Forsworn really the liberators they made themselves out to be? Or were they just one of the many strange and bizarre people of the world she had ended up in that justified their own carnage over that of others?

By now, Quelaag was not so certain of the former anymore. Yet she had not been certain enough to refuse when Drascua, pleased beyond measure, had announced that she and her sisters had considered her worthy. She was to become a Hagraven, a bird hybrid such as herself, and be granted unimaginable power by the Daedric Princes they worshipped. The news had caused a shiver to run down her spine, but she had simply nodded and the Hagraven had chalked her underwhelmed reaction up to humility.

Yet now, as she stood there in a circle of her sisters, chanting as they gathered soul gems and put the slaughtered carcass of a skeever onto the altar. The words they spoke had an unpleasant edge to it, an unnatural ring that seemed off-kilter with everything around her. As if they called upon a being that should not be unleashed.

As the chanting went on, a horrid feeling was welling up inside of her. One she couldn’t quell, even when she tried to tell herself it was just nerves. Even now, so close to the immense power she was promised, she had to wonder. Was she truly becoming something beyond the mortal realm? Or was she simply becoming her mother, opening a door that should remain closed? 

“Oh, Hircine! Huntsman of the Princes! Father of Manbeasts! Hear our plea! Come onto us and grant our sister a boon, in exchange for her humanity!”

The witches kept repeating this plea all around her, over and over, until her head started pounding. With every second of their twisted prayers, she was becoming more unsettled, more disorientated. She fought the urge to clutch her pounding head, to call out to them to stop. To voice the ever growing feeling in her that she might not want this after all. 

Yet the noise didn’t cease. If anything, it seemed to swell, complimented by shrill shrieks and groans as the witches worked themselves into a frenzy. She swore she could smell blood which didn’t belong to the skeever. That she could hear lost souls scream inside the soul gems. Something was trying to slither into this world, from a crack to some kind of horrific new dimension and she could feel her knees buckle her mind overcome with horror.

Then, just like that, everything stopped and the tower was bathed in an unpleasant quiet. The world around her had grown cold and Quelaag couldn’t help but feel there was a strange entity in the vicinity. Perhaps this Hircine the Witches were chanting too, but she swore she could feel inhuman eyes watching her. The former Chaos Witch felt a horrific chill in her bones, so intense that she barely even heard what her companions said next. 

“Bring in the sacrifice.”

Quelaag remained silent and unresponsive as two of the witches left. She was frozen, only keeping from shivering due to lack of strength. She stared into space, overtaken by a sense of dread and an immense fear. Blind and deaf to everything around her, she was only snapped out of her catatonia when a voice reached her ears.

“Please, let me be! Do not hurt me!”

The voice, diminutive and girl-like, shook her from her daze. Her heart stopped. She looked up and her eyes widened with shook.

The bound and beaten young woman that was carried into the circle was familiar to her. How could she not be? Even if her voice no longer sounded as weak as she remembered… Even though her once brittle white hair was black once more… Even though there were no spidery limbs attached to that small and lithe body anymore… She knew and her voice cracked when she spoke.

“Quelaan…”

Immediately, all the witches turned to her. She could see frowns on all their faces, clearly surprised by that one word. They were not the only one, as the girl in their grip looked back at her, a look of both shock and recognition on her own face. What she said next only drove it home.

“Quelaag? Sister?”

The oldest witch suddenly laughed. “So what he said is true…”

Without even thinking, Quelaag turned to the woman. What on earth did she mean with that? Did the witch know who she was as well? And who on earth was she talking about.

“Madanach told us about that this woman came to him, claiming she was your sister. He told her of where you were and what you had become, but she didn’t take it well. She refused to join his cause when he graciously extended the invitation, calling him a monster and a barbarian, so he gave her to us instead.”

All the former Chaos Witch could do was listen, utterly stunned at what she was hearing. Madanach had kept this from her? He had found her family, people she loved and lost, and could not do so much as send her a note? Let her know so she could decide what to do with this information? Something inside her squirmed. Was this how the so-called King in Rags treated the people under his command?

She didn’t get to think about it for very long. The two witches who held Quelaan dragged her to the chair behind them and forced her to sit on it. They turned to her and she could see the almost malicious smirks on their faces. The eldest witch then spoke, with an undertone of macabre glee in her voice. 

“It’s time to prove your loyalty, Quelaag. Hircine is watching. Make this dissenter your offering and become a Forsworn, heart and soul!”

If Quelaag had not been sick before, she was now positively retching. Her mouth hung open, practically imploring the woman to say it was a tasteless joke. Yet the witch’s eyes glittered and a broad grin came onto her face. She was utterly serious and everything about her demeanor indicated that she had little choice.

The former Chaos Witch looked upon her sister. By now, her face was a mask of fear and tears streaked the skin of her bruised face. She couldn’t turn away, no matter how badly she wanted to. She had loved Quelaan, having been close with her since her birth. They had been inseparable their entire lives, in sickness and in health and she had gone so far to kill just so she might live. How strange and twisted it was now, that now her little sister would have to die for her instead…

Around her, the witches laughed and chanted. They urged her to go forward, to kill. To do away with this sniveling weakling that held her back. To let go of petty mortal morality and grasp the immense power she deserved and only lay just out of reach. Their words slowly turned into a mantra and then, just like that, Quelaag felt something change inside her. 

As she stood there, looking over her sibling’s trembling form, all anger, horror and disgust she felt at that notion suddenly disappeared. Instead, she stood up straight and faced her begging, crying sister without emotion. She raised her hands ready to say the incantation, causing the women around her to cheer enthusiastically. 

Quelaan’s wails only grew louder when she started to mutter the spells required, but the sound was drowned out by the almost trance-liked screams of the witches. As she glanced aside, she saw how their eyes rolled back in their heads, working themselves into a frenzy at the thought of slaughter and the sight of their Daedric Prince. Their zeal pushed her on and whatever sense of hesitation she still felt came undone. 

She made her choice.

The first ice spike she released hit the nearest witch straight in the heart. The woman didn’t even get the time for a last gasp. Instead, she went rigid for a second before hitting the ground like a ragdoll, her eyes wide in an expression of abject terror. The other witches were too entranced to even notice right away and only when three more feel to Quelaag’s rapid attacks did they finally understand what was happening.

Angry shrieks thundered across the top of the tower as they retaliated in full force, hurling a vast array of destruction spells her way. The former Chaos Witch remained unperturbed and simply responded with swift attacks of her own. Several of them fell to her onslaught right away, others didn’t go down so easily. 

The witches closed in from all sides, hurling fire, frost and lightning at her. Some of them scratches at her with their talon-like nails and others brandished daggers. They fought like ferocious animals, aiming to tear her apart. Their anger was frightening, but it was no match for the tranquil fury Quelaag was currently feeling.

Without a speck of fear or remorse, she pressed on. Barrages of destruction magic rained down on the other witches, ceaseless and unrelenting. When she temporarily ran out of magic, she would resort to using her iron dagger, viciously cutting her way through any of them foolish enough to come close. She fought them, slash for slash and spell for spell, until the warlike shrieks turned to screams and eventually silence and there was nothing but the smell of blood and burned flesh.

When the fight was over and calmness returned to the tower, all she could do was simply stand there and look across the chaos as adrenaline slowly left her veins. Even though she had broken bread with these women over the last year, she found she felt nothing. Nothing that would make her feel remotely regretful after all that had transpired. 

She could vaguely sense how all around her, the chilling atmosphere dissipated. The eyes of Hircine seemed to leave this place and she swore she could hear the Daedric Prince laughing hysterically as he returned to his own realm. Apparently, he found an unexpected hunt more amusing than granting a witch powers, after all. Not that she cared. Instead, there was only one person whom her heart went out right now.

She turned to look for her sister, only to find her cowering in a corner. She walked over to her and after a brief moment of exchanging glances, Quelaag reached out and embraced her. Quelaan practically fell into her embrace, sobbing.

“I really thought you would kill me…”

The older sibling shook her head, biting her lip. “Never.”

This only made her cry more. “I do not know how I ended up here. There was a man… He said his name was Arius, claimed he was a Fire God once worshipped in these parts. He brought me here and told me to find our sisters and brother. Then I was captured and brought to Madanach… He told me he had you and to join him… When I refused, he…”

Quelaag could only hold her tighter, but inside of her there was an inferno brewing. Right there, at the top of Darklight Tower, she saw the world clearly now. She saw the light, at the end of a long and winding road that started in Izalith and all that was left for her was to walk towards it. She knew what to do and this time, in this life, she was going to act on it. 

She rose and pulled her sister with her, causing the younger woman to stiffen. “Quelaag? W-where are we going, sister?” 

“We are going to the Reach.”

The journey to the Reach wasn’t awfully long by carriage. Still, it took for too long for the former Chaos Witch’s liking. She practically leapt off from it the moment they got near Markarth, dragging her sister with her and made her way to Druadach Redoubt, the place she once called home. She had unfinished business with those inside, especially the man she once followed.

The fire in her eyes must have been evident, for all Forsworn in the space quickly scampered out of her way as she strode in. she quickly caught sight of Madanach and marched over to him with her sister in tow. When the man noticed her as well, she saw how he froze over, briefly casting her a look of shock and then anger. She could already feel heat gathering at her fingertips and when she finally reached him and he spoke, this urge only grew greater.

“I should have known you were too weak-hearted to go through with it… I put too much trust in your loyalty.”

A part of Quelaag wanted to set the man on fire then and there and it was only Quelaan clutching her arm that kept her from it. Instead, she took a deep breath, determined to let him explain himself before turning her back on him. 

“You knew my sister was alive! That she was looking for me! Yet you said nothing and then offered her up as a lamb for slaughter!”

She saw him take a deep breath, a sorrowful look in his eyes. “I am sorry. But your sister rejected our cause and intended to remove you from the Hagraven’s tutelage. I could not risk losing someone like you. I need loyal and skillful people and to reach our goals, sacrifices had to be made. Only those who have that strength stand a chance to survive.”

Quelaag noted how he sounded remorseful, but it only enraged her further. “You kept me in the dark because you knew I might desert should I learn the truth! Well, it is too late for that now, Madanach! I’ve learned the truth and it is time you and I part ways!”

Her words were so loud they reverberated through the Redoubt, catching the attention of every man and woman inside. She didn’t care. As far as she was concerned, they were free to hear it. Even if Madanach didn’t seem to like it at all.

“So that is how it is going to be then? I gave you food and shelter. I educated you in ways of the world! I told you of the importance of the Forsworn and the peaceful kingdom we wish to regain! And now, you turn your back on me and throw it all back in my face! Was it the Nords? The Silver-bloods? How much did they offer you to give up your integrity?”

All she could do at that was gape. He didn’t understand. Nor did his followers. Not even remotely. Had it really not occurred to him just why some might disagree with his methods? Or perhaps he didn’t want to. Perhaps, after all the losses and blood, it was too hard to consider.

She almost laughed. “Were it that I was offered such things! No, I haven’t given up my integrity. I found it after you eroded it! By feeding yourself and others half-truths about the Reachmen, appealing to a past so long ago no one has lived it! You claim victimhood against the Nords, but when your people have been slaughtering each other in tribal warfare since the First Era. Even now, you slaughter your kinfolk and mark them traitors for not endorsing your methods! Here I thought a king was just!

By now, it was clear the Forsworn leader’s anger was growing. “All I want is the peace we had when we took Markarth! We were a peaceful kingdom and we would have seen it legitimized! All I want is that again!”

Quelaag rolled her eyes. “Your peaceful kingdom didn’t last even two years! How many died when you took the city? And nothing you will build will ever last! It will not ever as long as innocents have to die for your dream, causing their loved ones to take up a blade and avenge them! You consider everyone who is not your kind or aligned with your interest an enemy and you make plenty more on your own!”

By now, Madanach was practically turning red. “It is not our fault! You have seen what the Nords did to us! To our wives, sisters and daughters! To our husbands, brothers and sons! You have seen their injustice! And now you would claim our cause is unjust?”

She looked him in the eye, her words cold as ice. “And somehow, the injustices you commit are for the greater good? When did pride and past become more important than lives, Madanach? Dreaming of an idealized past that was centuries ago. Whipping dissatisfied people into a frenzy, forcing them to lay down their lives, all based on a questionable claim of legitimacy. Hate him as you might, but from what I see, you are no better than Ulfric Stormcloak now!”

That was the final straw. For a moment, she could see true anguish on the King in Rags’ face, only for it to turn into a mask of unbridled fury. She knew those words cut him to the bone and perhaps it was cruel. Still, she felt it had to be said. Even though she would risk her life doing so.

“How dare you compare me to that monster! And don’t you dare insinuate we have no more right to the Reach than those cursed Nords!”

By now, Quelaag didn’t know whether she was angry or truly sad. “Be honest with yourself, King in Rags! The Nordic ruins your people hide in are older than the Reachmen! In fact, were it not for the Nords bothering to lay with the Bretons over the border, your whole civilization would not even exist! And at this point, it does not even matter anymore where the injustice started and by whom! All you and the Jarl in Markarth do is taking turns occupying the land and spilling the blood of anyone caught in-between the next battle of vengeance! And what does it matter anyway? As long as nothing changes and power is maintained!”

With those words, she reached for her neck. She had forgone her Forsworn armor for black robes when she joined the Witches’ coven, but she had been determined to keep a necklace, made of a hawk’s skull and feathers, as a sign of her allegiance. Now, she ripped it off, held it in front of Madanach and dropped it onto the ground. She looked him in the eye, her voice dripping with both ire and sorrow. 

“If you think you will ever exterminate the Nords and sit atop a throne, then go ahead. Fight for that dream all you like and tell yourself any cost is worth it. But it is a fight I refuse to take part in.”

She gave him a final nod, only to then turn away from him, motioning at Quelaan to leave. Yet as soon as she stepped away, her path was blocked. In front of her was Borkul the Beast, Madanach’s protector and right-hand man. Other Forsworn were also surrounding them from all sides, weapons drawn, and she could tell they were out for blood. Behind her, the King and Rags spoke again.

“You’re a fool, Quelaag. Coming here and telling me to my face that you plan to desert us? Did you really think you could simply leave the Forsworn? That we would simply let you off, knowing what you do? We can’t risk that and you know it.”

She looked at him over her shoulder, a sad smile on her face. “No. I knew you would try to kill me. But I figured I should at least explain my reasons, to be honest. That does not mean, however, that my sister and I will not fight our way out.”

She swore she could see mocking grins on the faces of the Forsworn surrounding her. As far as they were concerned, she had just sealed her fate. Let them assume that, she decided. They might be fierce warrior who practiced hedge magic and worshipped Daedric Princes, but she and Quelaan were Chaos Witches. Born from a Primeval Lord and born from fire. And soon, they would know.

She saw how Madanach’s expression was the middle between a smirk and a sad smile. “A fearless warrior to the end. At least there is a little bit of Forsworn in you, after all.”

Quelaag shared one last look with him and in that brief moment, there was a measure of understanding between them. It didn’t last long. Soon, she could see dark magic at the man’s fingertips and the other Forsworn rushed at her, weapons drawn. There would be blood and she knew she no longer had a choice.

She exchanged a knowing look with Quelaan. Her sister looked back at her, fearless and determined. She was no longer sick or weak and it seemed she too had gained some knowledge of spells in this land. They were no stranger to combat, having battled the mighty dragons at the advent of time. These were not dragons.

Thus, as the first sword threatened to touch their skins and the first blast of magic threatened to hit them, they raised their hands jointly. Within seconds, a gigantic fire storm was unleashed from where they stood, burning all those nearest to them. A chorus of screams reached the Chaos Witches’ ears, but as another wave of enemies approached, they readied themselves and once again engulfed their foes in another blaze.

Soon, the two of them were dancing through the flames, directing elemental spells at each and every Forsworn that came close. Most died as soon as the magic touched them, others held out a little longer. Still, their numbers were no match for their raw strength and rage and soon, all of them lay either dead or screaming and burning. All except Madanach. 

He wouldn’t go down so easily. Drunk on bloodlust, he leaped across the flames, raising his sword and hell-bent on striking her with it. Quelaag retaliated with several fireballs in his direction, trying to slow him down. The man would stagger every once in a while, but he kept coming at her, lashing out with his sword. 

The Chaos Witch tried her best to avoid the onslaught, dodging and ducking, swinging her own dagger in his direction. They circled each other, as the fire consumed everything around them. Only one of them would walk out of here alive and neither one was willing to lie down in defeat.

They fought like this for what felt like eternity. Both of them drew blood, but neither one gained the upper hand, the master as good as the student. Their skins became marred with cuts and burns, panting as their lungs burned from the smoke. They stared at each other, teeth bare in a sneer, until eventually, the King In Rags simply lunged, charging at her while shrugging off any amount of fire she could threw at him.

Quelaag gripped her dagger, readying herself. She had thrown all she could at him. Now, all she could rely on to save herself was timing. That and hope, that she with her small weapon would be able to land a killing blow.

Yet he never reached her.

Then, suddenly, there was a flash of white and a deathly gasp as a swift slice of a dagger tore open Madanach’s throat. She could only watch, shock in her eyes. Her weapon lowered, only for her jaw to drop.

The man fell to his knees and behind him, she saw Quelaan, standing over him with tranquil fury. Proud, vicious, every bit the Chaos Witch she remembered her as. Her younger sister then locked eyes with her and Quelaag simply nodded as she walked over to her fallen foe.

“I am sorry, Madanach. I did not want this.”

The man only glared at her and his lips, gasping for air, formed a curse aimed at her. A pang of sadness hit her in the heart. She could not blame him. Betrayal was always a bitter pill to swallow, especially by those one cared about. All she could do, as a last sign of respect, was end his misery quickly.

Taking a deep breath, she straightened her back and in one quick motion, send an ice spike flying straight through his head. Instantly, the King in Rags dropped dead onto the floor, the ice in his head quickly melting in the inferno. Quelaag froze for a moment, muttering a prayer to the Old Gods for his soul, only to allow Quelaan to grab her arm and quickly guide her out of the burning cave. 

By the time they made it to the entrance, all that was left of Druadach Redoubt was a burning husk, rife with the smell of charred flesh, scorched wood and melting iron. The two sisters never looked back as they left the place behind and quickly wandered down the road, until finally, all they saw were rings of smoke in the distance.

“They will come for us, sister.”

Quelaag turned to her little sister, who watched her with a calm, matter-of-fact expression. “The other Forsworn. Once they learn what we have done, they will come for us. And they will demand blood.”

She sighed. Quelaan was right, of course. The Forsworn didn’t forgive, especially not the death of their king. That thought alone should frighten her, but for some reason, nothing could. Not anymore. A smile came onto her face, determined and calm.

“Then it is flame they will receive.”

Much to her surprise, her younger sister smiled back at her and the strength in it only increased Quelaag’s own confidence. It was good to have her sister back again, to see her alive and well. To, after so long of being alone in a strange place, finally see a friendly, familiar face she knew she could trust.

“So, where should we go?”

The older sister thought for a moment. “Somewhere safe. I doubt Markarth is a safe haven. There are still those loyal to the Forsworn in there. No, we need to go somewhere far away. Somewhere abandoned. Arkngthamz, perhaps…”

Quelaan cocked her head. “Arkngthamz?”

“An old ruin of an underground city. It used to be inhabited by some race called the Dwemer, but they have long been gone now. It’s deep in the mountains, so it would do for now.”

“What of our brother and sisters?”

Those words had Quelaag smile once more. On the way to The Reach, Quelaan had told her all about her strange meeting with the deity named Arius. About his claim that he had taken every pyromancer he could find and unleashed it onto this world as his own twisted little prank, except for one he’d lost to “the spider”. That they were Quelaan’s to find and that he would be very interested in seeing what she would achieve in this world. 

Their stories were so alike, she realized. Tossed aside by a cruel unknown deity, unleashed into a whole new place without a path in front of them. Now, however, they were no longer alone in this world. They had each other and after so long of relying on the other, nothing was impossible. 

“Then we should go to the ruins to make ourselves a home, for us and for anyone else who might need shelter. And from there, we will look for them. Until we find them, until we are a family again.”

Quelaan’s face lit up and after so long of seeing her so sick and downtrodden, it was the most beautiful sight in the world. “That sounds wonderful, sister. Truly wonderful.”

Quelaag laughed a little as her younger sister locked her arm with hers and they continued on the path to the Dwemer ruin, walking on the two feet they had lacked for so long. With the cold Skyrim sun her face, the wind in her hair and surrounded by a world so full of life instead of death and disease, she felt that for the first time in their unnaturally long lives, she and her sister would truly be at peace.

Soon, she would not be the only one. Her other sisters and her baby brother were out there, somewhere, probably looking for them too. Craving a place to call home. So were a great deal of other souls, lost and tired of all the conflicts and bitterness in Skyrim. Both the Nords and Reachmen had reaped so much destruction on this place… Perhaps those caught in the bloody wars were needing a refuge as well. 

It could be done. After all, if she was alive again thanks to a long-forgotten spider god and found Quelaan again, why not? Why not try and make a home free from the pride and folly of others? If Markarth could rise from stone, then nothing was impossible.

She would find them, she decided. She would find her siblings and bring them here. Them and any others who were broken and lost. To make a home for all forgotten, forlorn and forsworn. To ensure that the past would never be repeated.


	13. Blessings of the All-Maker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bearer of the Curse fights so the past won't be repeated.

To die unforgiven was worse than death itself. 

The Bearer of the Curse knew this. It was a greater truth than that the cycle of the First Flame would never end. It was his burden to carry, in death and beyond. Even if he knew that for what he did, he didn’t deserve to be forgiven. 

He didn’t regret turning down the Throne of Want. He’d been tired of the vicious, never-ending circle, of a Lord of Light having to give themselves over to the fire. Of the endless curse of Undead that swept the world time and time again. The only thing he wanted was for the world to be freed from the First Sin.

Thus, he had left Drangleic behind and traveled to Astora, to make a life for himself there and find a way to break the cycle. He had not gone alone. Shanalotte, the Emerald Herald, had come with him. She too wanted to leave behind a life of sorrow and after going through so much together, she wished to follow him rather than remain in the ruins of a dying land. Having become similarly attached to her, he certainly wasn’t going to tell her otherwise

For several years, they had led a happy life, first as close friends and later as husband and wife. Holed up in a small but safe city in the heart of Astora, they carved out a simple existence. They didn’t have much, but they had each other and the hope and optimism that they could change the course of the world. 

When they could, they would venture outside, to the lands beyond such as ancient Lordran. There, they would look for answers, solutions, perhaps a way to replicate the cure or somehow undo the effects of the Flame. They would spend their time in old ruins, haunted dungeons and withered tombs. At one point, they even visited the mostly abandoned husks of Anor Londo itself. There they would search for a way to avert fate, going on nothing but hope and determination.

Yet hope and determination only got one so far. The revelation he searched for remained out of reach, nonexistent entirely, and in time, the world was growing dark once more. The fire was fading and as the dark slithered into this world once more, it required a sacrifice.

The Bearer had known it would have to be him. A man who had killed the Lords of Light, who had taken and consumed the most powerful souls known to mankind. If anyone could link the fire and sustain the world for another century or so, it was him. He knew that within the darkest depths of his heart. And so did Shanalotte. 

She never so much as spoke a word, however. Instead, she avoided the topic entirely and if they could not fill the void with small, insignificant talk, all that was between them was a pained silence. She knew what had to be done, for the good of the world, but even without words he knew why she never addressed it. To save the world her husband had to die and she couldn’t bear to lose him.

He never blamed her. He didn’t want to die either. Not after fighting for so long to avert his fate. To acknowledge that everything he’d done was for nothing. That he was going to have to give himself to the Flame and burn in agony for centuries on end. And for what? A world that had never done him, a disgraced Forossan knight, any favors. A world that had only taken from him. All except for Shanalotte.

Shanalotte.

She was the only damned thing in this world he still cared about. The only thing he still wanted to maintain this world was. To save her, he had to break her heart. They both knew it and yet, somehow, he felt that if he were to speak those words, she would not cope. She would break and he could not bear to see her having to count down the days until his demise. 

So, rather than telling her what she already knew, he’d simply left. In the middle of the night, when she was vast asleep, he’d kissed her one last time and whispered he loved her. He’d left her a letter, explaining everything and reaffirming those sentiments. Then, he’d quietly exited his house, to embark on what would be his last journey, to face his death alone.

Even now, as the fire tore at his hollowing flesh, he wept at the memory. He’d taken the coward’s way out, not even allowed her to say goodbye to him, to have a last few happy memories even if they’d be tainted by sadness. He’d done her a grave injustice, motivated by selfishness, and now he’d have to live with that for as long as the Flame kept him in its clutches.

How much longer would that be? As he lay there on his knees, slowly losing his mind from the pain, he just wondered how long he could still hold on. He couldn’t even remember how long he was in here. Was it yesterday that he sacrificed himself or perhaps centuries later? Was Shanalotte still alive, thinking of him or had she long since died and the world had gone into another era? He didn’t know and he couldn’t even bring himself to think. All he knew was that he was in pain… So much pain…

One would think that it would numb over time, but nothing was less true. If anything, the pain seemed to grow more overwhelming with time passing. Everything blurred into a flaming whirlpool of bright fire, until he could no longer hold on. Every day, more of his mind was lost to madness. First, it was his home, then his late family, then his past and his present. The only thing he still had, the one memory he still hung onto and fought for, was Shanalotte…

“Brendan.”

A voice barely above a whisper could somehow be heard over the crackling fire. The sound of his name, of which he couldn’t recall the last time he heard it. It had him perk up, his agony forgotten for a brief moment, straining to hear it. It sounded familiar somehow. It called him, beckoned him. It invited him to walk away from this cursed flame and leave everything behind. 

He should question it, wonder if it was even really there or if he was losing his mind entirely. Yet he didn’t. He forced his broken, burning body to stand, to walk. To reach that voice that offered a way out.

His feet found a path he’d never known before and within moments, he moved. Even with his blurred vision, he could see something. Something else than fire. He stumbled, dragged himself, eventually crawled. It took every last ounce of his energy for him to reach it, that impossibly bright light at the end of the hidden path. Without hesitation, he used the last of his strength to fling himself through and the last sound he made was a relieved sob as darkness beseeched him and the pain was gone…

“Tell me why I’m made to take care of him again?”

“Because it would have been inhumane to leave him lying there like that.”

“Why? Look at him. It’s probably one of those fools from Thirsk, getting drunk on their mead and mocking us under the influence.”

“We know who lives at Thirsk. I have never seen him there. No, I think he may be the one we need.”

“I think your vision has become terribly clouded, Frea.”

The Bearer of the Curse twitched, the sounds around him pulling him from what felt like a deep slumber. He opened his eyes ever so slightly, trying to determine where he was. Somewhere in his mind, he vaguely detected he was no longer in pain and he was lying on something soft, with some fabric covering him. He started to squirm, only to hear the voices again 

“He’s waking up. Thank you for all your effort, Edla. I will speak to him now.”

A huff was heard, followed by footsteps. As he tried to open his eyes further, he could see a woman stare at him. She was unfamiliar to him, but nonetheless watched him with great interest.

“Hello. Can you hear me?”

He quietly nodded and she smiled. “What’s your name?”

He forced his lips to move, noticing how dry his mouth was. “Brendan. Ser Brendan of House Ceylan. Knight of Forossa.”

The woman noticed it too and reached for something beside her. She handed him a cup and he was pleased to taste water. He eagerly drank, before turning back to her. He could tell that what he said made no sense to her and her words confirmed this. 

“I know not of such a place.”

He looked her over, as well as the environment. He was in some sort of house, with strange decorations and architecture he’d never seen before. He himself was on a bed, his nakedness only covered by the blankets. An uncomfortable feeling settled in his stomach. 

“Who are you? And where am I?”

The woman smiled. “I’m Frea. I am the shaman of the Skaal and you are in our village. You are on the island of Solstheim, on the coast of Skyrim.”

Brendan’s mouth briefly tugged into an apologetic smile. “I am afraid I do not know of such a place either. I would not even know how I got here…”

Frea responded by offering him some food and he gladly took it. He couldn’t help but notice it was actually fresh and he happily sank his teeth into the loaf of bread. As he ate his first meal in possibly ages, she continued talking to him.

“I found you at the Sun Stone, naked and unconscious. There were no signs of a struggle or accident. Not even footprints. It was…as if you simply appeared there.”

Those words, strange as they sounded, stirred something in him. A memory. Blurry and painful, but so odd and vivid he couldn’t possibly ignore it. 

“There was fire. I was on fire. Then there was a sound, a voice whispering my name. It told me to walk away from the flames. It set me on a path to a bright light and then, there was blackness and the end of pain…”

The Bearer of the Curse was certain he sounded like a rambling madman and the way the woman stared at him, she probably thought him so. He couldn’t blame her. In fact, he was still not certain if this was real or some bizarre dream he was having as he was slowly dying in the Kiln. At least, until she responded.

“So the vision I saw was true…”

He gave her a look, even more confused, and she answered. “I assume you know nothing of the Skaal people?”

All he did was shake his head and she continued. “We are a people who maintain the old ways that our Nord kin on the mainland abandoned. We worship the All-Maker, the one that created everything and to whom we will return after death. We live from what the land provides and leave it intact, only taking what we have to.”

Brendan couldn’t do anything but politely listen. The religion she described sounded odd to him, if anything. Back home, the Forrossan Lion Knights worshipped Faraam, a God of War, as well as a pantheon of other Gods and none of these Gods called for a sparing use of the environment. Any cultures with such practices had long died out where he came from.

“So you are a culture of hunters and gatherers?”

She nodded. “Yes. It is a harsh life, but a rewarding one. And there is one that sometimes makes it harder. The antithesis of the All-Maker. We call him the Adversary and I fear his avatar might be among us again once more.”

A chill crept across Brendan’s spine as she said those words. There was something about her tone, about the small trace of fear in it, that made him not want to disregard her. Besides, after all he had gone through, he was smarter than to show disdain to cosmic being of great and terrible powers. Still, one thing he couldn’t understand.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Frea looked at him, seeing embarrassed and hesitant. “This may sound strange to you. You don’t know this place and the Skaal. Something tells me you do not even know this world you have ended up in. But I had a vision. About the Adversary returning once more, in yet another terrible guise. Then I saw a warrior cleansed in fire, stepping through the veil of worlds. In my vision, he was the one to save us.”

There was a short silence between them and the Bearer of the Curse could not think of anything to say. Something told him that she was not jesting and meant every word she had just said. It was the closest thing to explaining to him why he was here, unburnt and no longer hollowing, in a place that looked like nothing he had ever seen. Still, even if it was true, it frightened and confused him more than anything.

He knew nothing. Not of this Solstheim, not of the Skaal. Not of this All-Maker and Adversary. How could he possibly fight an enemy he didn’t know, much less understood. He had tried to do so once and he had failed miserably, causing immense grief for the one person he loved. 

He sighed. “That is quite a lot to expect of me. I…I barely even understand what has happened to me…where I am… I wouldn’t know how to save you, even if I tried.”

With every word coming out of his mouth, he could feel himself deflate even further This was probably not what she wanted to hear, this strange but kind woman who had seemingly pinned all her hopes on him. Still, he no longer wanted to make promises he couldn’t keep.

Frea gave him a smile, one that was both sad but also serene. “I know this might all be strange for you and you do not understand. That’s alright. You will in time. For now, however, you should simply rest. Something tells me you have been through a lot before you came here.”

There was so much sympathy and understanding in that answer that it caught him off guard for a moment. It was only now that he realized just how tired he was, how much centuries of burning had taken a toll on his mind. It felt overwhelming all of a sudden and he spoke before he realized it.

“You have no idea…”

A chuckle left her mouth. “I probably don’t. I will ask our smith to get you some clothes and armor. You’re free to roam the village, if you want.”

Brendan simply nodded. He didn’t know what else to do right now. He was somewhere far away from home, separated from everyone he loved. So far, this woman seemed friendly enough and reliable. The best he could do for now was accept her hospitality, at least until he gathered more information.

Thus, for the next year, the Bearer of the Curse found himself as a guest of the Skaal. He shared their meals and partook in their daily activities, meanwhile exploring the island of Solstheim, trying to learn more about this world he had ended up in. Even though everything pointed to him being torn from his own world somehow, he wasn’t going to accept that belief until he was absolutely sure. 

He spent a lot of his time talking to Tharstan, another outsider who was a Nord historian from the mainland of Skyrim. He had plenty to tell about the Skaal, about their history, beliefs and customs. About the island itself and how it had changed after the eruption of the nearby Red Mountain of Morrowind. Yet like them, he had never heard of Forossa or even Drangleic, Astora or Lordran. 

He learned there were other beings on this island besides different offshoots of Nords as well. On the southern coast of the island was Raven Rock, a small mining town inhabited by Dunmer or Dark Elves. These strange-looking creatures were a sentient race that was on neutral terms with the Skaal and let them be, though they would occasionally trade in goods. The town also had a small port and every once in a while, ships would set out to Windhelm from there. 

Once or twice, Brendan sailed from the island, hoping the world beyond might know about his home. Yet Windhelm had proven to be a cold and inhospitable place where people were equally clueless about the place he’d come from. If anything, they accused him of actually being crazy. The frigid city full of wary Nords had left a bad taste in his mouth and in the end, he had quite happily sailed back to Solstheim.

In fact, he realized he started to quite like life at the Skaal village. It was simple, consistent and while it wasn’t a luxurious existence, it was a satisfying one. There was something about their peaceful co-existence with nature that drew him and after a lifetime of senselessly fighting, he soon found himself embracing it. 

The people were happy to accept them in their midst. He proved himself a skilled hunter and a capable warrior, making him a good addition to the village in their eyes. Besides Frea, it didn’t take long for him to befriend the other members of the tribe. Even Edla, the town’s herbalist who previously thought him a wandering alcoholic, was warming up to him. So much so that when he expressed a desire to remain here, she had brought in her son Nikulas to help him build a house of his own and soon, the other men of the village joined in as well. 

With the help of the community, he soon had his own home, made from the wood of fallen trees and the remnants of animals, per the Skaal tradition. It was a good feeling to return to his own four walls after each day of hard work. This life away from turmoil and the Undead curse suited him and brought him the healing he so desperately craved. The only regret he had was that Shanalotte wasn’t there with him. 

Shanalotte…

He still thought of her every single day. What had become of her, he wondered, after he gave himself to the First Flame? Had she mourned him at all? Or had she only felt bitter anger at him? Had she gone on with her life, found someone else to love? After what he had done, could she still have had a happy life?

These questions haunted him, every night when he lay in bed and felt the cold, empty spot beside him. It was in those quiet moments that he realized he’d never again talk to her, hold her or take her in his arms at night. He missed her and the thought that he would never see her again weighed heavily on him. He would never be able to tell her he was sorry for leaving her behind without a goodbye.

As time went by in the Skaal village, he tried his best to shake off such thoughts. There was no point in torturing himself over something that could no longer be undone. Still, reconciling with past mistakes was hard and forgetting was impossible. No matter how much time had passed.

He was mulling on this again that one morning. He and fellow hunter Wulf were busy gutting a horker they had caught. They were separating the flesh and fat, the bones and innards, every little part of the animal so it would not go to waste. The work was monotone but oddly satisfying and the two of them were chatting happily about everyday events. At least, until they heard a scream.

He looked up, only to find Finna and Ysra, two women from the village, running towards them. Both of them had their weapons drawn and their faces were pale as death. Wulf was just about to ask them what was wrong when they themselves provided the answer.

“A monster! A monster is coming to the village!”

Both he and Wulf found themselves frowning at the same time. There were many dangerous animals living around Solstheim but most of them stayed away from the village. What would possibly come here to bother them? Still, just as the two were about to question it, they heard the heavy thud of armor. 

Brendan didn’t hesitate. Already dressed in armor, he reached for his helmet and shoved it on his head. He took a large Stalhrim greatsword from his back and readied himself for battle. A rush of familiar adrenaline slithered through his veins. It was time for battle.

Still, even he hesitated for a moment when the enemy finally came into sight. The enemy was human, but he was immensely tall. Brendan himself was notably over average height, but this person dwarfed even him. He was glad from head to toe in black, ominous-looking armor, ebony he thought they called it here, but that wasn’t the most unsettling thing about him. 

Something about him gave the Bearer of the Curse the impression that it wasn’t exactly…alive. Its movements gave off a sense of automatism, like a puppet moving on strings or like the golems he’d seen at Brume Tower. A strange smell seemed to come off him, oddly sweet but rotten, and his eyes, whatever he saw of them, shone with an unnatural color. Whatever this man was, he was not of this world.

The mysterious, tall stranger came marching into the village, looking as like a wolf choosing which sheep to tear apart. Within a moments, it had caught sight of Edla and drawing its long, black sword, it set upon her. The woman screamed but before the blade could pierce her, Frea was there.

The shaman tore into her enemy with unbridled fury. She hacked at him with her dual axes, tearing at the armor. She went for the legs and the throat, driving him back with the sheer viciousness of her assaults. It was enough to give Edla the time needed to get away, but just as Frea prepared to swoop in again, the man raised his head and spoke three strange words.

“Zun…Haal…Viik!”

A shockwave came from the man’s mouth and suddenly, her axes were flung from her hands. She blinked for a second, only to then stare at her own hands in shock. She then turned her gaze back to the ebony warrior and for once, there was an expression of fear and shock on her face as the warrior approached.

Brendan didn’t hesitate. Gripping his sword tightly, he charged at the man. The warrior saw him coming and, taking his attention off Frea, swung his own weapon. His movements were fast as lightning, but the Bearer was faster.

He blocked the sword with his own easily, with enough force to push his opponent back. The ebony warrior froze over, staring at him from a brief moment. Then, an inhuman snarl rumbled within the armor, followed by three new words.

“Fus…Ro…Dah!”

Hardly had he said this or a shockwave came forth from his lips. Brendan’s next move was instinctual, as he slammed his weapon deep into the sandy earth and held firm. The shockwave passed over him like a storm, a howling wind that shook the ground. Once the worst of it passed, he saw the man charge at him once more and pulling his greatsword from the sand he was quick to answer.

He’d let this monster know what it was like to fight a Forossan Lion Knight.

Their swords clashed as the two man started to fight. The Bearer of the Curse found himself rolling and dodging, slashing and hacking. The other man bore down on him like an ocean wave, going for the jugular, employing both steel and spells to make him yield. 

Brendan could feel the blows rain down on his armor, blood trickling from many small wounds. The chill of frostbite nipping at his flesh. The frustration whenever the man healed up a wound that he’d just created. He swore he could hear the man inside laugh, unimpressed with his efforts and goading him into just giving up.

Yet he didn’t. He refused to. He fought like he had once fought his way through Drangleic, against countless monsters, warriors and forces of the Abyss. It almost made him smile. If he fought and conquered those, then what was one measly tall man in black armor?

That thought made him push on, with a strength and bloodlust he had not felt in a long time. He cared nothing for the wide arcs of the warrior’s sword, the endless spells he hurled at him, the shouts with which he tried to knock him back. He kept on coming, viciously, determined to protect his home.

The ebony warrior seemed to realize this and with every new lunge of Brendan’s blade, he seemed to become more frightened. His movements became more frantic, his spells more frequent. Every time the Bearer pushed forward, the man pulled back, desperate to heal his wounds, desperate to buy time. Soon, he was simply fleeing, limping and distressed with the Bearer of the Curse hot on his heels.

He could feel how the warrior watched him, bleeding and stumbling but unbroken. Even though he couldn’t see his eyes, he sensed confusion in them, even something akin to astonishment. As he struggled to put more distance between them, it was clear that he had not expect this kind of resistance and it had caught him off guard.

At the edge of the village, however, it suddenly stopped. It turned to look at him and he gave it an icy stare back. Then, out of nowhere, an eerie laugh was heard inside that armor. 

“So the Skaal got themselves a new protector… And here I was so sure that borrowing this newly deceased Redguard would suffice…”

The moment he heard that voice, Brendan found himself grow cold. Then and there, he knew. He truly knew. This man whom he had just fought was not some ordinary warrior. 

“No matter. I will be back. I won’t be bested by one pathetic mortal. Even you must have a weakness.”

The Bearer of the Curse bared his teeth behind his helmet. A pathetic threat from a pathetic being as far as he was concerned. He had already lost everything and as long as he was here, this…thing could not tough the Skaal village. 

The being seemed to notice that confidence. If anything, it only made it angrier. It drew the body it used up to its full height, staring him down. When he refused to do so much as twitch, it practically shrieked at him.

“Oh, don’t be so certain of yourself, Skaal-friend. Every single being in this world is fallible. Every single one can be made to break. I will find that which makes you weak. I will find it and I will make you watch as I tear it apart and sink it into the void! Just like everything else in this forsaken kalpa!”

What followed was a laughter so demented it sent a chill down Brendan’s spine. Yet that brief emotion of horror was quickly followed by raw anger. Instead of listening to anything else, he raised his sword and charged at the being, determined to put it down once and for all.

He never got the chance.

As sudden as the warrior had appeared, it was suddenly gone, faster than one could blink. A dark portal seemed to pull it from this world to…something beyond before he could even reach it, and then, there was nothing. The Bearer of the Curse looked around, determined to find him, but it he seemed to have disappeared into thin air. It only confirmed the awful suspicion that had come over him.

As he stood there, lost in his thoughts, the rest of the villagers reached him. He soon felt Frea’s hand on his shoulder and he looked down at her. The look she gave him was a worried one.

“Are you alright, Brendan?”

He shook his head. “It was him… I know it.”

The shaman frowned. “Who?”

“The Adversary...”

Almost immediately, he could see how her face grew pale. She clutched one of the axes strapped to her waist and her jaw clenched. Then and there, he didn’t know what caused her greater worry. The idea that The Adversary was here or the fact that he, a former outsider, freely acknowledged his existence. 

Still, before he could say anything else, she recovered again. “That is troubling. Very much so. We must convene tonight and decide what to do next.”

The Bearer of the Curse shook his head. He’d fought the creature off this time, but there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that it would soon come for them again. The die had already been cast and he was no longer running. 

“I already know what we must do.”

Frea stared at him and he answered calmly. “Have Edla heal my wounds and Baldor repair my weapons. I will pack some food and other supplies, then leave in the morning.”

He could see an uncomfortable expression come onto the shaman’s face. “What are you planning on?”

The Bearer shrugged. “I’m not going to wait for the Adversary to come back to us. I’m going to find him again, wherever he is on this island. And I’m going to kill him.”

An uncomfortable silence settled between them the moment he said it. He could see how Frea’s eyes went large, how her mouth opened and closed, perhaps to try and talk him out of it. Perhaps once upon a time, he would have gladly heard it, but now, he knew it was pointless to argue. These were his people now too and this was his fight.

“It was you who said it was my fate to defeat him. To bring peace to the Skaal once more. Then let me. You are a strong and resilient people, but when your opponent is armed with steel and spells, you have no need of meditation. What you have need of is a knight.”

Perhaps it was his conviction. Perhaps the logic of what he said. Yet the moment he stated his case, the shaman went quiet. She looked him over, as if thinking of anything else to say. She quickly gave up, instead nodding.

“Very well. But let us bless you before you go. So we do not have to fear you fighting this battle alone.”

It was easy enough for Brendan to agree to that. By now, he knew enough of Skaal magic to know it was strong and something told him he needed all the protection he could get. He somehow felt that this was going to be one of the greatest battles of his life and that even if he’d live, it would change him.

So that night, he was quiet and reverent as Frea led him to the triangle of carved stones at the heart of the village. He knelt as she uttered blessings, called on the All-Maker to protect him and make him successful in his endeavor. The other Skaal answered with prayers and blessings of their own, handing him herbs and amulets carved of bone to protect him on his journey. They wished him fair tidings and hoped that, by the grace and protection of their deity, he’d come back alive and victorious.

Their words and kindness strengthened him immensely and after a night filled with fitful slumber, he left the next morning. Carrying food, potions and other necessities, he set off while the rest of the village watched him go. Off to nowhere, to anywhere, To wherever the threat to his new people was currently hiding. 

He could feel his head pounding under his heavy armor. This was it. Once again, the fate of the world depended on him. Again, there were forces at work beyond his control. Forces too vast and complex to understand and all he could do was try to survive as the story played out.

Part of him was oddly fine with this. He’d survived Vendrick, Nashandra, Aldia… He’d been manipulated many times and every time, the manipulator ended dead at his feet. At least he chose his fate this time and this time, he’d make sure that things would end on his terms. 

He wasn’t giving up this time. Not on these people. He would find this avatar of the Adversary, this bringer of misery, and he would vanquish him. This time, he would not yield in the fight for the world he loved so much. This time, he would save it or die trying. 

“Forgive me, Shanalotte. But I will not make the same mistake twice.”


	14. Interplay of Light and Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shanalotte struggles to determine her inner strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, everyone. Dark Souls III characters are (finally) coming.

When the Emerald Herald grew up, she heard the story of Mytha, the Baneful Queen. The woman who loved the Iron King, but whom loved another. Who poisoned herself to attain beauty in hopes of being loved. A queen who became a horrific lamia as a result and who died at the Bearer of the Curse’s hand angry and alone. She had shuddered at the tale, barely able to imagine what it was like to die in anger and grief. Now, she too knew. 

Even now, she still saw it in her dreams. That morning she woke up, only to find the spot beside her empty. It had surprised her, as Brendan was usually one to sleep in. She had risen, calling his name yet not getting any answer. She had searched the entire house, thinking he’d surely have to be somewhere near. Yet no matter how many times she called, how many times she eventually begged, he never responded. It was enough for panic to slowly rise in her and a horrible thought came to her. 

It was only then that Shanalotte found his letter and by the time she finished reading, she was on the floor, collapsed and choking on her tears. She wept, screaming until her voice gave out. She pleaded and shouted and tried her best to deny it until she could only lie there, her body wracked with sobs.

How long she stayed there, simply grieving while clutching the letter with trembling hands, she didn’t know. How she cursed him and called for him in the same breath and wondered why. She was paralyzed, her spirit crushed, almost catatonic. All that her mind could conceive was that the Bearer of the Curse, the man she loved and who had given her something to live for, was gone forever.

She had known it for certain when the sun once again rose over the mountains, indicating the Flame was once again burning. Civilization revitalized, plants were growing again and wildlife returned. An entire world, who didn’t even know the name of the one who sacrificed himself for them. Burning away, fuel for the fire. He’d left her to save her and he had gone without saying anything. Without telling her that he loved her or would miss her. Without even giving her a chance to say goodbye. 

That knowledge was what truly and utterly broke her. She couldn’t find it in her to go outside anymore. She barely ate or drank and forsook taking care of herself. She would stay within the walls of her house, clinging to the clothes and possessions Brendan had left behind in an effort to still somehow feel him with her. 

But eventually, even his memory faded from these objects. Outside her home, the sun shone and life went on. She should rejoice in it perhaps, thank the Bearer of the Curse for his sacrifice and continue living for him. Yet she couldn’t. She was alone now and the last person who had cared about her was gone. This world, one he had saved for her, was not worth it. 

So she had left her house one day, bringing nothing but one of her lover’s trinkets and enough food to sustain her. She had not looked back once as she left her old life behind, only caring about her destination. She had traveled to Oolacile, the once golden land swallowed by the Abyss. She traveled past its insane inhabitants and twisted wildlife until finally, she reached its chasm. All she could do was smile, almost serenely, and simply clung to Brendan’s trinket as she calmly walked off the edge, unfazed as the blackness swallowed her. 

The dark was soothing, if only for a while. She drowned in it, losing all concept of time and space. She could feel her mind empty, her thoughts scatter. Here in the Abyss, she could forget and in time, she hoped even the memories and pain would wash away along with her sense of self.

How long she drifted on its currents, she didn’t know. She didn’t need to know. All she felt was infinity, the perverted dark of humankind in every pore. It was where she wanted to be, where she wanted to stay. Why not give in to the one thing everyone else so hopelessly fought? 

Yet, after perhaps infinity on the black waves, there was something other than darkness. Not light, yet rather something in-between. An odd interplay between cosmic forces that swirled and danced around her. It reached out to her, unseen fingers stroking her face and invisible eyes locking with hers. Then, there was a pull and suddenly, the darkness was no more.

There were stars now. Comets, planets and other celestial bodies that stretched into infinity. She was like a speck, floating through the universe, a passing life insignificant in the entirety of the cosmos. Every single second, her mind was opened to amazing sights and while it was overwhelming, she hoped it would never end. 

“Nir…”

A voice, coming from everywhere and nowhere, rumbled through space and time. The moment it reached her ears, Shanalotte could feel herself grow cold. There was something about it that wasn’t right. The voice felt dark and empty like the Abyss, like the void itself coming to life…

“Are you there, Nir? Come to me. Oh, sweet interplay of Dark and Light. Why must you forsake me for Anu?”

All of a sudden, she was no longer in her little husk. The force around her started to pulse and tremble, almost as if it were beset by fear and panic. There was a pull and suddenly she was hurtling through infinity, a million lifetimes passing before her eyes. Meanwhile, the darkness encroached on her and she had never felt terror like she did now.

Then, out of nowhere, she was flung into the light and cold air enveloped her on all sides. She was naked, she realized, though she had no idea why or how. It would have made her shriek, were it not for the dark presence still being there, bearing down on her with fists dressed in iron. She could feel her skin tear and bruise, her screams turning into moans of pain.

She tried to look up at her assailant. He was a huge man, dressed in black armor, and the voice he spoke in didn’t sound human at all. And for some reason, he was out of her blood. 

“Where is she? Where is Nir? Did she send you here? Is she trying to help Anu’s avatar? Tell me, your pathetic mortal! Spill it or I will gut you like a skeever!”

She only stared at him, eyes wide and quickly growing more afraid. She wanted nothing more than to tell him that she didn’t understand. That she had no idea who this Nir or Anu was. To tell him to get away from her, stop hurting her. Yet she couldn’t even get those words past her lips as he continued to slam her against the ground. Was this how she was going to die? No sweet oblivion but a painful and drawn-out death, perhaps because she committed suicide? Would that be the end at least?

No.

Then and there, a thought started to form in her head. The first one in a long time not motivated by grief or loss. One that somehow overrode any feeling of loss or fear or the numbness she had felt since Brendan left. A sense of determination, a deeply sated decision that even if she was tired of living, she was not going to die here and not like this. 

The man came close for another blow and on instinct, one of her legs raised to kick him. Her foot caught him square in the face and while his helmet made it more painful for her than for him, it was enough to make him stagger. She didn’t hesitate and quickly got up, ignoring her nudity and looking around for some way to defend herself.

Her eyes fell onto a large piece of rock a few feet away from her. She ran towards it, feeling how the man has recovered and was now hot on her heels. It only made her move faster and as soon as she found her weapon, she grabbed hold of it, only to feel a hand wrap around her arm and pull her back. She came face to face with that ominous dark helmet again and saw how he pulled back his free arm to hit her again. It was in that split second that she moved forward and used both hands to bash the rock against his head. 

Almost immediately, the man went down. A groan was expelled from his mouth and he crumpled to the ground. Instantly, the grip on Shanalotte’s arm loosened and she backed away slowly. The rock slipped from her hands and after briefly wondering whether he was dead or not, she decided this wasn’t the time to question it. Without thinking, she pulled herself to her feet and started to run. 

So the Emerald Herald ran, over what felt like cold sand and sharp rock, desperately hiding her nudity with her arms. She sped across what looked like a ravaged coastline filled with dead trees and plants, not caring that her legs were hurting and she was getting tired. She ran like a headless chicken, until at last, something strange caught her eye. 

Something that looked like an impossibly giant mushroom, standing out against the landscape.

Not knowing what else to do, she urged herself to run towards it. Clambering over fallen trees and sharp stone, she didn’t care her feet had started to bleed or that she was drenched in sweat. Instead, she kept moving, until at last, she reached the strange formation. 

She could practically weep with joy when she saw there were in fact doors on the large fungi, hinting that something was actively using them as a residence. Whether that something was actually friendly to her or not was another matter entirely, but she was currently not in any position to be choosy. She ran up the makeshift wooden stairs to the first door on the left and pushed her way through. 

“Please, anyone! I need help!”

Anything else she wanted to say died in her throat when she found herself face to face with the creature inside. It was unlike any creature she had seen in Drangleic. It had gray skin, pointy ears and deep red, eyes. It turned to her with an irritated, disdainful look.

“Hmmph. Another wanderer. I suppose you’ll be wanting potions, just like…”

She stopped halfway through her sentence, truly registering the image in front of her. With just one look at her, her expression changed. Instead, her face expressed clear horror and shock and immediately, she took on a much warmer, softer tone. She reached out to her and motioned her to sit on a nearby chair. 

“Oh… By Azura… Come, sera. Come. Please, sit down. Let me help you.”

Shanalotte didn’t even think to protest or be suspicious. Instead, she gratefully sat down, only now feeling how sore and tired she was. She happily took the clothes the strange woman offered her and quickly started to put them on. When she was given a potion, she carefully tasted it, only to down the contents when she realized it dulled the pain. As she sat there, waiting for the effects to take call, the strange gray woman looked her over, worry evident in her tone.

“What happened to you, dear? What’s your name?’

That question, spoken with some much genuine concern, was what finally had her become undone. She started crying, her body trembling with sobs. Part of her realized just how embarrassing it was to weep like this in front of a stranger, but she was so shaken that she didn’t even care.

“S-Shanalotte. I do not know… I jumped…and suddenly, I was here. And there was a man. He beat me up. He kept talking about something called Nir and Anu… I…I have no idea what he was even talking about.”

The woman frowned and the Emerald Herald was sure she thought she was crazy until she responded. “Nir and Anu? That’s odd…”

That had her look up. “D-do you know what it means?”

The woman handed her what looked like a cup of tea. “Well, most cultures here believe there are two cosmic forces at the beginning of the world. Some call them Anu and Padomay. Some say they are now Anui-El and Sithis. The Skaal on this island call them the All-Maker and the Adversary. Nir is the interplay between them, the mother of creation, though it is said she only loved Anu. It was said she died birthing the world which we call Nirn in her honor, yet can a cosmic force truly die?”

Shanalotte quietly listened to the explanation and while she was glad the woman actually had information about what happened, it also made her more scared. Something told her then and there that the person who’d assaulted her was not any normal living being. If so, she didn’t want to stay in one place for too long. 

Still, she didn’t protest as the woman leaned down to take care of her injured feet. By now, she noticed just how much they hurt. She was grateful for the help and at this point, she had the feeling that however strange this creature looked, her concern was genuine. 

“Good grief, sera. That man must have as strong as he was insane. You look like you’ve fought a horker in chainmail. Maybe you should stay here. At least until the potions have worked some of their magic.”

Even though she understood lady was likely just trying to be kind, the suggestion brought a chill to the Emerald Herald and she furiously shook her head. “I…I need to get away from here… That man… The one who attacked me. He might come looking for me. I do not want to be responsible for anyone getting hurt because of me.”

The woman laughed. “Only a fool would directly take on the Telvanni wizard who lives here. Don’t worry, you’ll be quite safe.”

Again, Shanalotte wanted to protest, but as she started to feel the sting of her wounds, she figured the gray lady might have a point. She was tired and every inch of her body hurt. She would likely not make it very far without some rest, let alone some food or water. As uncertain as she was of her situation, she really had no choice but to accept the accept the hospitality offered to her. 

“Alright, I trust you… And thank you…” 

Thus, that night, the Emerald Herald slept in Tel Mithryn, the strangest place she had ever seen, eating something called ash hopper, with ash yams and cabbage. As odd as the food was, it was delicious and she spent most of her night listening to her host. Elynea, as she found out the woman’s name was, was a creature called a Dunmer and a mycologist by trade. While the wizard, Neloth, had grown this town using magic, it was she who maintained it. She told her all sorts of interesting tales about Solstheim, the island she was on, and her homeland of Morrowind. Despite Elynea claiming she wasn’t a people’s person, Shanalotte found she liked her company.

It had been a long time since she was among people. She and Brendan had mostly been on their own, what with the world around them crumbling and hollowing. There had been others in their small town in Astora, yet in time, they had also succumbed to the curse. Every single day, their numbers dwindled and amidst the chaos and heartbreak, she had eventually retreated from the community, mostly staying on her own with Brendan. After all, he was the one person she knew for sure she’d never lose to a hollowing curse.

She could feel herself grow bitter at that thought. The Bearer of the Curse was gone and as much as she still wanted to mourn that fact, she couldn’t. She didn’t have the strength for it and she needed whatever little she still had left. Now, her first priority was getting off this island and away from the being that had attacked her. What lay beyond it…she didn’t yet know and she couldn’t bother to care.

The next day, she left Tel Mithryn, somewhat less scared and far more prepared. Elynea had given her an old Dunmer chitin armor she had found while looking for mushrooms and as the helmet covered every inch of her face, she was near impossible to recognize. She had also equipped her with a small dagger and it was like this that Shanalotte decided to go to her next destination: Raven Rock. 

The Dunmer woman had told her it was a small town with a port. A ship called the Northern Maiden would regularly dock there, offering passage to the mainland of Skyrim. It should not be hard to find, according to her host. Just follow the coastline to the left and she couldn’t miss it. 

So she did just that. Shuffling through the volcanic ash, she started to walk this supposed town. It wasn’t easy by a long shot. The hot air made her dizzy inside her helmet and she couldn’t stop for water knowing the ash might have poisoned the streams. Not used to wearing such heavy clothes, she quickly felt tired and every muscle in her body was burning. Yet, most disturbingly, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. 

That last thought was what drove her forward, despite her fatigue and uncertainty. Sometimes she ran, sometimes she sneaked, carefully avoiding what looked like giant locusts, floating jellyfish, bandits and humanoid creatures made of ash. The only time she ever stopped was to inspect a chest washed up on shore and she quietly praised her luck when she found it filled with gemstones and jewelry. Her instinct told her she might be able to use those and she pocketed them, before quickly resuming her trek. Yet no matter how fast or slow she walked, how many times she looked over her shoulder, she couldn’t shake the feeling that darkness was following her.

The sun was already setting by the time she could see the town in the distance. She practically cried out in excitement upon seeing the Bulwark her host had mentioned and urged herself to run one last time, practically stumbling through its gates. She could see how the guards gave her strange looks as she passed, but she couldn’t care less. She had made it to civilization in one piece and here, she felt safe.

Deciding to make the most of her time before sunset, she rapidly made her way to the docks. The Northern Maiden was indeed there and its captain told her she would sail early in the morning. The passage cost a princely sum and the Emerald Herald was grateful for her earlier decision to take the loot from the chest. A quick visit to a local vendor solved her money problems, leaving her with enough septims for passage and a room and food at the local inn until morning. Not the quick getaway she had hoped for, but good enough considering the circumstances…

The Retching Netch was the oddest inn she had ever seen. Most of the building seemed to be underground, which provided a wonderful cool reprieve from the hot ashen air outside. She was also particularly relieved to see it was populated with other humans as well and that the innkeeper, despite his surprise at seeing a human under the helmet rather than a Dunmer, was kind to her. She figured she would at least be safe here until morning. 

Eventually, she retired to bed, but she found it impossible to sleep. She lay in her bed, tossing and turning. Her mind kept spinning, thinking about her lover, mulling over what would await her on the other side of the sea. Whether this world had anything worth living for or she was merely repeating a cruel cycle of her own. She didn’t know and that uncertainty made her afraid.

Then, as her eyes finally drifted shut, the music inside the inn suddenly stopped. She could hear the sound of heavily footsteps stomping to the bar. Then, she heard a voice, one that was enough to petrify her in an instant. 

“Where is she?”

Shanalotte could feel her heart stop. The man in black armor. He was here. Inside this inn. And instantly, she knew he was looking for her. 

She could hear the innkeeper respond, clearly intimidated. “C-calm down, sera! W-who?”

“The female human. With auburn hair and two different eye colors. She must have come here. Where is she?” 

The Emerald Herald barely even realized that she had risen from the bed, taking her belongings. She quietly sneaked to the door and pressing herself against the wall. She carefully cracked it open, observing the situation in the main room. She could see the black knight, looking even more battered than before. He had currently had his back to her, trying to intimidate the innkeeper, and she knew this was her chance.

She had to flee this inn and hide somewhere. Hide until morning, until she could get onto the Northern Maiden and get away from this place. She was not going to fail while she was so close to escape. 

So, she took a deep breath, put her chitin helmet over her head and got out of the room. Moving as calmly, slowly and quietly as she could, she started heading to the exit. She tried her best to control her breathing, trying not to actually look at the knight as she cross the main room and headed up the stairs. She could already see the door a few feet away from her and she rapidly moved towards it. A few more steps and she would be clear.

“There you are!”

Those three words spoken by that inhuman voice were all it took to break her cover. Instantly, she started to sprint, barging through the door and running into the dark streets. She found herself hiding behind one of the houses, the shadows rendering her invisible. It wasn’t long before she heard she heard her pursuer burst through the door as well, looking for her while cursing under his breath.

“Where are you? You can’t have gone far. And Nir will not protect you now…”

Shanalotte didn’t respond, instead pressing herself further against the house. Perhaps if she stayed very quiet and still, he might think she ran further and would go away. Yet it quickly became clear he wasn’t so easily fooled. She saw him looking around and it was only then that she realized with horror that she likely left footprints on the ash-strewn, sandy ground.

That suspicion quickly became reality as she could hear him approach. He walked slowly, almost unhurriedly, as if he was certain he was going to catch her no matter how far she ran. She found herself frozen with fear, her heart beating so fast she felt it would leap from her chest. Just how much longer could she relent against an otherworldly force that refused to give up. 

“Should you not be more worried about me than terrorizing some locals, Adversary?”

The Emerald Herald practically jerked when she heard a second voice. It was also deep and masculine, yet it was clearly human. Somewhere deep inside, she felt a comfortable sense of recognition at it, though she couldn’t understand why. The black knight stopped and turned towards the person, chuckling.

“Ah, so you managed to follow me here… Anu chose a stubborn hound this time.”

The man simply huffed. “I have fought and killed things far worse than you. And you know it. Else, you would not be running.”

The black knight sneered. “I’m not one to pick a fight I’m likely to lose.”

The man growled. “Ah, but you did when you decided to threaten the Skaal. So, do you wish to fight and die with dignity? Or do I need to chase you and cut you down?”

She had no idea what on earth they were talking about and frankly, she couldn’t care less. Whoever the man was, he had the knight’s full attention. That would give her time to flee and hide until the sun came up. Smelling her chance, she gave her enemy one last glance and ran. 

Suddenly, there was a sound and a jolt of magic struck her right in the back. Almost instantly, she could feel all her muscles go limp. She wanted to scream, but she didn’t get the chance as she fell to the ground. She cringed at the pain, but before she even got a chance to panic, she felt how she was pulled up and another shriek went dead in her throat when she looked up and saw the knight. He turned back to the other man and she sensed he was smirking under the helmet.

He pulled her chitin helmet off her head and turned her towards the stranger. “You’re not going to hurt me. Not while I have her.”

Despite the darkness, the Emerald Herald saw how the man froze, then lowered his weapon. He stared at her, a shocked look on his face. She didn’t quite understand why, until, at last, he spoke.

“Shanalotte?”

It was then and there that Shanalotte could feel her thoughts come to an abrupt halt. She stared, too shocked to fully comprehend just what was going on. She had indeed recognized the voice and as she slowly felt some feeling coming back to her muscles, including her lips, she responded.

“Brendan?”

The man looked straight at her when she said that name. She couldn’t make out his expression, but everything about his body language indicated he recognized her. She could read shock, confusion, concern, even happiness. It really was him and somehow, he was here. Alive… 

She would have asked why or how, had she not felt a hand tighten around her throat, followed by a cruel laugh. “So she _is_ important to you. I knew it. Well, then I think you can figure out my terms…”

Instantly, the Emerald Herald knew what situation she was in. Then and there, she knew things were about to get ugly. The Bearer of the Curse was never a good man to threaten and he didn’t take kindly to anyone using leverage.

She saw how he raised his sword again, his voice lowering to a growl. “I do not barter with cowards. You either let her go, face me and get a dignified, clean death or you touch her and I swear by the All-Maker I will make you bleed.”

He took a step towards them and almost instantly, the black knight took a step back. A movement he repeated several times as the Bearer closed in. She could feel his hand tighten around her throat and she gasped, trying to struggle. Her mind raced, looking for a way out of her predicament, and it was in that moment she realized a very crucial thing.

The magical paralysis started to wear off.

In an instant, she knew what to do. She willed her arm to move and brought it to her belt. As the seconds ticked by, she slowly started to feel the cool sensation of the dagger hidden there. Using every inch of her will power, she forced her fingers around the handle and then, once she was certain she had enough control over her movements again, she brought it upward and drove the weapon into her captor’s arm.

Immediately, he dropped her with a pained grunt. She could practically hear her bones rattle, but any acknowledgement of pain was pushed away as she pulled herself up and tried to stumble out of his range. She could feel how the knight reached out, closing in and trying to grab her again. He never even got the chance.

Within seconds, Brendan was on him. Sword drawn, he tore into the man, hacking away at him as if he were cutting a piece of bloody meat. The knight responded by drawing his own two swords and went on the defense, fending off his opponent best as he could. 

Shanalotte watched as they clashed. Her lover wasted no time with defensive measures, going for the throat and the hamstrings, doing his best to cripple his opponent as his rage seemed to be growing by the second. His aggression only irked the black knight more as he tried to viciously land blow after blow on him. 

The two of them were evenly matched and as time ticked by, the smell of blood was in the air. She could see red stains emerge on Brendan’s silver armor with each blow his opponent struck, yet he shrugged it off and dealt out another strike in retaliation. The knight would fight back even harder, pushing back for every inch he lost, determined to kill him swiftly and brutally. 

They fought like this for what seemed like hours, brutally stabbing and slicing away at each other Both of them hungry for victory. Both of them fighting for their life.

Still, eventually, fatigue finally took its toll. She could see the muscles in Brendan’s legs tremble, his breath becoming labored. He was struggling to stand upright and maintain his balance, blood seeping from his many wounds, fingers clenching around his heavy sword as he tried to gather the strength for another swing. 

As the black knight came charging in again, Shanalotte watched in horror how her lover placed himself in-between them. She could sense that he was at the end of his rope and that the knight was aware of his weakness. This was his last chance and his last stand and still, the man who had abandoned her once made it his priority to protect her above all else…

That notion, so bitter, saddening and infuriating all at once, shocked her mind into overdrive once more. No… She didn’t want him to potentially die for her. He’d done so before and it had only brought her misery. She had survived so far, in this strange hostile land, using her wit, common sense and a primal will to live. There was no reason why she should be helpless now.

She had to help him. She had to do something. Her next action was purely on instinct and a sense of crazy faith she had never before experienced. She readied herself before sprinting past Brendan and rushing forward. She drew her dagger once more and telling herself to have courage, threw herself at the black knight before viciously stabbing him in the ankles.

Her enemy went down immediately with a loud, pained growl. He furiously swung at her, but she ducked underneath it and drove the weapon into his flesh again. High on adrenaline, she kept slashing at him, viciously and ceaselessly, screaming at him to simply die.

She only stopped when the man suddenly lashed out at her, grabbing her by the front of her armor. She shrieked, plunging the dagger into the man’s arm instead in an effort to let go. The black knight didn’t even budge, inhuman snarls coming from behind his helmet, as his grip on her tightened and he raised one of his swords above his head to strike the killing blow on her.

He never made it.

There was the sound of ripping flesh and suddenly, the sight of sharp steel as it was thrust through his chest from behind. Shanalotte gagged as icy cold, blackening blood spurted out onto her body and her eyes went wide as she looked behind her assailant. She saw Brendan standing over him, arms quivering as he forced the blade even deeper into the man’s body. Whatever little was visible of his face betrayed fury and his voice was cold as ice as he leaned over.

“Like I said, touch her and I will make you bleed.”

For a moment, the Emerald Herald detected fear coming from the black knight, only for him to chuckle, audibly coughing up blood as he did. “You’re proud of yourself, Skaal-friend? Only a mortal would be. You cannot kill the Void. I’ll come back. Time and time again, even when this kalpa ends and the next one begins…”

The threat was chillingly clear, but all he got from Brendan was a huff. “And every time, the Skaal will vanquish you.”

With those words, he pulled back the sword and then, in one clean movement, sliced through his opponent’s neck. She watched in a mixture of horror and fascination as it rolled off the body upon separation from the neck. Both hit the ground with a dull thud, once again plunging Raven Rock’s streets in a peaceful silence.

She watched how the Bearer of the Curse then sank to the ground and she found her own knees give way soon after. The adrenaline in her veins dissipated and she found her heartbeat slowing once more. It only barely registered to her that the man who had viciously attacked and pursued her was now gone and that, at last, she was truly safe. 

“Shanalotte…”

The sound of her lover’s voice shook her from her reverie. She looked up, staring at him as he tried to get on his feet and limp towards her. He pulled off his helmet and in the faint light of the lanterns, she could finally see his face.

‘Brendan…”

Only now did it really get through to her that he really was there. Alive, reaching out to her, somehow in the same strange place as her. She could feel tears well up behind her eyes and she finally dared ask what she was thinking all along.

“What… What are you doing here? I…I thought you were dead! You should be dead!”

He let out an awkward chuckle, his voice betraying confusion as well. “I was. Or at least, close to it. Then there was a light and I ended up here. I am not certain, but whatever happened to me… It must have happened to you too…”

His response only confused her even more. Something inside her told her that she wasn’t dead and neither was he, even though she clearly remembered dying. So why where they here then, alive and well in a place that likely wasn’t the afterlife? Right now, it was too great a conundrum to wrap her head around and instead, she focused on the only emotions she could truly grasp right now. Sadness and anger. 

“You left me! You just went ahead and sacrificed yourself to the Flame! You were just…gone and all I had left of you was a letter...”

She could see how he cringed at that. He fell silent and froze in place, seemingly hesitant to move or speak for a long while. His expression was one of pure pain and sorrow and when he answered, his voice trembled. 

“I know. I figured that if I sacrificed myself, you would live. But I did you wrong…”

It was there she could no longer hold back the tears. “Yes, you did. You went to die and you could not even face me before you did. Tell me you loved me or you would miss me or allow me to say goodbye. You could not even give me that!”

She was sobbing now, so loudly that she was certain she was waking up all of Raven Rock, if they hadn’t already when Brendan fought the black knight. It didn’t matter to her. Right now, she simply felt like she was falling apart, lying in the ash, spouting her grief, anger and lack of understanding at a man she never thought would be able to actually hear it. 

“Did you really think that would make it easier? To just leave one day? Without giving me time to accept, to cope? Did you really think I could just go on like nothing had happened, with you suddenly not being there? With the man whom I loved for several years going off to die like that? Do you not think I deserved a little more than that after all those years?”

By now, it was clear Brendan was coming undone as well. “You do. I’m sorry, Shanalotte. I’m so sorry…”

She felt how he reached out to her again, trying to hold her. Part of her really wanted him to, to feel him close again. Yet at the same time, there was a deep sense of pain and betrayal that made her feel revulsion at the very thought.

She backed away. “Sorry, Brendan. I cannot. What is to say you will not leave me again? What if I have to suffer again?”

She was shaking on her legs and by now, a million thoughts ran through her head. Should she still be staying here? Talk to him? Or should she go back inside the inn and continue her journey to Skyrim tomorrow, slamming the door on him forever? 

The Bearer of the Curse seemed to sense her dilemma. “Shanalotte… I know I have caused you pain beyond words. That I was a coward, afraid your grief might dissuade me from sacrificing myself to the flame… You deserved far better than that… I cannot undo what I did…but I also can’t bear to walk away now you are here again…”

She remained silent and he continued. “I will not ask you for forgiveness. I do not deserve that. All I ask of you is that you allow me to do right where I did wrong. Just…please… Come to the Skaal village with me… I made myself a home there, large enough for two. I will not ask you to share my table or bed, just… Give me a chance. For what we had. Because I loved you and still do…”

Still, the Emerald Herald didn’t speak, simply too surprised by what he said. Brendan had never been a man of many words. He even rarely told her that he loved her. He tend to show it in his actions, by keeping her safe, by holding her close whenever he could, by bringing her home the occasional flower he had found in their dying world. In a world where she had been abandoned as a failure, he’d loved her and ensured she’d never forget it. 

Even his sacrifice had been for her, even if she never wanted it. Even if she would have stopped him if she could. Even if she had rather experienced the end of the world with him by her side, he had done the right thing with only her in mind. She never doubted that he loved her, in spite of what he had done, and she still couldn’t doubt that even now. 

That was what made all the difference. 

“Very well. I will come with you, give you another chance. For what we had. Because I cannot stop loving someone so easily…”

She could see a small smile on his face in the light of the lanterns and she didn’t stop him this time when he pulled her into a warm embrace. Again, she realized just how comforting and familiar it felt. How badly she wanted to feel and see and smell and taste him after he was abruptly torn from her life. The future was still unclear at this point, yet she knew then and there that she would not remain bitter with him.

She didn’t want to be like Queen Mytha, dying alone and miserable, poisoned with anger. To once again waste her life withering away a second time. Somehow, she felt she wasn’t brought here with that in mind.

The being who summoned her to this strange new existence was not one who held grudges. Nir still loved Anu, even in death. Even when he could not protect her from Padomay and they were forever separated. 

Perhaps this was her gift to him, beyond time and space. That those under their blessing would be allowed the chance at happiness that they were denied. It’s what Shanalotte liked to believe anyway, as she stood here in the darkness of night in Raven Rock, at the edge of a new and unknown future.


	15. Gifts of Xarxes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even death cannot stop Orbeck from seeking knowledge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some sources on the internet state that Xarxes is simply the Elven equivalent of Arkay or Orkey, the Divine of Life and Death. They and the Redguard god Tu'whacca certainly share similarities, but unlike many other equivalent gods, the details on origin and godly tasks don't match up and any Word of God lore is vague about it as best. What's more, the Bosmer clearly worship them as two separate deities. So until proven otherwise, I will assume Xarxes is a deity in his own right.  
> Okay, everyone, Dark Souls III characters are here. And if anyone is still reading this silly series, **I need your help.**  
>  Dark Souls III characters is kind of hard for me because it has a lot of interesting male characters that die but very few females. I don't want it to become a sausage party and I don't want to write an endless list of DSIII characters. I still have to keep some space for the Bloodborne crossover and possible characters from the second DLC. And I hereby already confirm Vilhelm and Friede as future chapters.  
> So which male characters would you like to see a story about besides Orbeck? Siegward? Eygon? Leonhard? Horace? Hawkwood? Greirat? Please let me know and leave a comment about it. Thank you in advance. :)

The price for knowledge was often a dear one. That was something Orbeck knew better than anyone else. It was one he lived by, especially after so long among the hypocrites of the Vinheim Dragon School. 

He was only a sorcerer in name, of course. In fact, part of him was certain its elite never intended to let him learn much beyond the basic sorceries he needed as their assassin. They’d be damned if they would ever allow the one who did their dirty work into their elevated little company.

At least, they thought it was elevated. For the last hundred years or so, the curriculum at the Vinheim Dragon School had been awfully stagnant. So confident in their power were the sorcerer nobles that they no longer sought out new knowledge. Or perhaps, they feared it, fearing change and being surpassed, clinging to a familiar but stagnant world where they maintained their lofty positions. 

So no, Orbeck wasn’t particularly sad when he was relieved of his duty upon gaining the Darksign. In fact, his wanderings in Lothric had proven rather fruitful. He had gained immense knowledge, beyond the scope of anything he could possibly imagine. A particularly helpful Unkindled provided him with ancient, lost knowledge, allowing him to learn more than he would’ve done spending decades at the school of sorcery.

So much did he learn and master in such a short time that he felt confident enough to help his Unkindled friend take on the Twin Princes hiding in Lothric Castle. What a battle it was too. It had been so satisfying to unleash his newfound power, to apply knowledge, to actually…contribute. To positively change the world instead of merely silencing the critics of those who required to stay put in the past. It changed him to his very core and after a heartfelt goodbye to the Unkindled, he set off to the Grand Archives, in pursuit of more knowledge. 

How fitting was it then, that his thirst for wisdom ended up becoming his grave. Between the cursed books and the scholar mages, he had overplayed his hand. He was dying, hollowing… And something told him this was the last time this would happen.

As he slumped into a chair, life quickly slipping away from him, he realized he wasn’t all that sad. He had never sat on his laurels, never considered his work done. He’d accomplished so much in so little time and died trying to achieve even more. Unlike a world obsessed with fire. Unlike those fools in Vinheim…

That thought made him smile, in-between ragged dying breaths. At least he died trying, improving. As a man well aware that there was always room to grow. That was good enough for him and as his heart ceased to beat and the last stages of hollowing took over, he calmly closed his eyes to accept death. 

He welcomed the dark as it closed in on him, enveloped him. A beautifully new and unknown world, calm and infinite, beckoned him to become one with it. He stepped inside it bravely and never looked back.

So this was death then… No paradise, no damnation. Just an endlessly monotone landscape of black. It suited him fine, really. If anything, it made him feel less guilty about all the lives he had snuffed out in the name of some powerful sorcerers.

He set about it eagerly, reveling in the endless enigma in front of him. This wasn’t the kind of rotting, decaying darkness that had plagued Lothric. This was the end of all things, the beautiful quiet of absolute nothing at the beginning and end of the world.

This was peace. 

So he wandered, endlessly and gleefully, strangely unperturbed by his situation. His mind at ease, he found himself acclimating to the void. After a while, he started to think he would be fine with staying here forever. 

Until, either within a short time or after an infinity, he saw something. 

As he came closer, he could see it was a book of sorts. He wondered just what it was doing here amidst an endless black sea and curiosity compelled him to pick it up. He lifted it off the ground and examined it.

The cover was one of the strangest things he’d seen. It seemed to be made of several scraps of hide, though he had no idea what kind of creatures it might have belonged to. A strange shiver of disgust hit him as he ran his hands over it, yet he couldn’t bring himself not to open it and inspect the contents. 

After all, if he had been willing to die for knowledge once, then why stop now?

Without second thought, he opened it and for a moment, it felt his heart stood still. The contents of the book was unlike anything he had ever seen. The letters inside seemed to swirl and writhe, as if they were alive on the pages. Yet somehow, he could still read them.

Oh, what knowledge they held! The pages whispered of things he couldn’t even begin to imagine, of powers in this world far beyond the scope of human perception. It frightened him beyond words, yet something kept drawing him in.

With every word, he could feel his mind expand. There was understanding, elevation to a next level of comprehension. It was somehow everything he sought and yet, everything he never wanted to know.

“You have my book.”

Orbeck jolted as he suddenly heard a voice behind him. The tome nearly slipped from his hands and he could only barely save it from plummeting to the ground. He let out a relieved sigh, only to take a deep breath and turn around to the person who had spoken. 

Behind him stood an utterly strange creature. At first glance, it looked human, or at least humanoid, but upon closer inspection, nothing was less true. Looking down upon him was a strange man with golden skin and features so narrow they were practically alien. It stared at him with unusual golden eyes and as he took off his hood, the sorcerer spied blond hair and pointed ears. Everything about him seemed not of this world, but the look with which he regarded him indicated amusement, not anger. 

Gathering all his courage, the mage spoke. “Who are you?”

The man, or at least he assumed it was one by his voice, chuckled. “I am Xarxes. To some, I am the god of secret knowledge and ancestry. Yet I’m certain you’ve probably never heard of me.”

Orbeck shook his head. “No, I haven’t. Where I come from, the Gods have left. If that makes any sense to you.”

Xarxes shook his head, again with an amused smile. The two stood there for a moment in silence and the sorcerer wondered just what kind of being he was speaking to. If it was indeed a god, it was not the kind he was familiar with.

Then his mind turned back to the tome in his hands. This man said that it was his. What did he mean with that exactly? Seeing how they were alone in this void, he figured he might as well ask. 

“This book… What is it?”

“It is called the Oghma Infinium. I wrote it centuries ago, in service to my master Hermaeus Mora. It is a book of immense knowledge and power, one that only the worthy are allowed to find. I wonder then…”

The mage couldn’t help but notice how his sentence trailed off. “What is it you wonder, Lord Xarxes?”

“This book… It should be back in Apocrypha, within the depths of Oblivion. Yet you found it. You, who are in the space between worlds…”

There was a short silence between them, before he spoke again. “You shouldn’t be here...”

He said those words, so calmly and matter-of-fact that it unsettled Orbeck immensely. What did he mean with that? Wasn’t this the plane beyond the world of the living? The longer he thought about the possible meaning, the more confused he felt and the more perturbed.

“What do you mean?”

Xarxes shook his head. “You are not from here. Yet here you are, existing between the fringes of Mundus, neither here nor there. And the Oghma Infinium has found you… This makes no sense, not at all.”

By now, the mage could feel a sense of panicked frustration arise. After all, what was one supposed to think when even a god didn’t seem to know what was going on? He was just about to inquire what would be next for him, when Xarxes spoke once more.

“Read the book, Orbeck. Choose from it a power to your liking. Afterwards, I shall guide you out of this darkness.”

There was a strange sense of urgency in his voice and the sorcerer found a million questions flooding his mind. Still, he also couldn’t help but feel this creature was genuine about wanting to help him. He had no idea why, but if he was right and this darkness was indeed a void between planes without life or new things to discover, he was curious to see what lay beyond it. 

He nodded and turned back to the book. The amount of knowledge it contained were no doubt boundless, but he could detect three main schools of wisdom. Strength, stealth and magic. 

To him, it was an easy enough choice. Even as an assassin, he never had any need for strength. As he had renounced his life as a killer for hire, stealth was no longer necessary for him. So he chose the one that came most natural to him: magic. 

As soon as he started reading, the words practically became seared into his mind. A number of spells, many he’s never heard of, entered his memory and settled there. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the tome was gone, as if it had just vanished into thin air. He looked around, wondering where it went, only to feel a hand on his forehead. He looked up, only to see Xarxes smiling.

“Fear not, Orbeck. I will bring you to a place where you’ll be quite content…”

The sorcerer was about to ask him where, but didn’t get the chance. Like a fox pouncing on a rabbit, the darkness caved in on him. It closed in on all sides, robbing him of his sight. Suddenly, he felt like he was falling and he soon lost all sense of balance and awareness as he plummeted into nothing.

He found himself waking up with a start, sitting up only to cringe when he felt his head pounding. He cradled it in his hands, groaning. His mouth felt dry and his eyes sore and he elected to hold still for a while before doing anything else. He felt tired, the kind of fatigue one felt after a deep sleep with unpleasantly vivid dreams. 

That had him think. Xarxes…The Oghma Infinium… Had it all been a dream perhaps? A dying dream? Or perhaps he was simply waking back up in the Grand Archives, again in pain…

That thought disappeared as quickly as it came to him when he looked around. He found himself surrounded by thick walls and snow and a chilling cold closed in from all sides. His skin, devoid of clothes he quickly realized, broke out into goosebumps and he let out a shocked grunt. He scrambled up, teeth chattering, his frantic mind wondering if this was actually real.

He didn’t think about that for too long. The cold certainly felt real enough and his instincts told him he would no doubt die if he stayed like this. He quickly assessed his environment, which looked like a circular room with a strange stone brassier that glowed strangely. Judging from the cold, the mushrooms and the utter lack of light, he assumed he was in an underground dungeon of sorts. It didn’t look like it was anywhere near Lothric at all. 

“Leave.”

The mage practically jumped when he heard a deep voice near him. He looked around, trying to determine where it came from. Yet no one was near and he then realized the voice sounded strangely disembodied. As if it came from those strange energies in the brassier itself…

That unsettling revelation only made him more on edge when it spoke again. “This place is not for you. Find the way out. To where you are meant to be.”

Too spooked by this unwanted encounter, he was not going to question what the voice was or even why it told him this. Seeing how he could see his own breath and his skin was turning blue made any questions obsolete. All he knew was that he had to get out of here.

With a shivering whisper, Orbeck tried to summon fire. When his usual spell didn’t work, he went on a limb and thought back to what he read in the Oghma Infinium. His eyebrows raised as a small ball of fire formed in his hand. Letting out a relief at having a source of warmth, he then hurled himself through the door. 

Instantly, he was met with a snowy corridor. He took a deep breath, then determinedly moved forward, clambering up icy cold stone stairs to see wherever it would lead him. Somewhere warm, he hoped. Warm and safe.

Suddenly, a strange noise came echoing down the corridor. The mage went quiet in response, crouching down as the fireball increased in intensity. He stayed perfectly still, not making the slightest sound as he tried to discern what it was.

The sounds were unsettling to say the least. An unpleasant monotone rhythm, like a mix between groaning and rattling. Almost like…dry bones gnashing together. That alone made him tense and the fact that he was naked, with no way to protect himself but some fire, made him downright terrified.

Still, the logical part of his mind told him that staying here wasn’t an option either. Where he came from was a dead end and if he stayed there, he would likely freeze to death in a few short hours. He’d die alone again, in some strange, underground dungeon with nobody knowing where he was. 

That thought was too much for him to bear. He didn’t want to die. Not again. And not in a place as cold and forsaken as this. 

It was all he needed. Sucking in a freezing, painful breath, he made his choice. Clutching the fire in the palm of his hand, he moved forward, ready to face what was out there.

He soon got his answer. The crackling noise intensified with every step he took and as he headed into the room it came from, he practically jumped. Living, moving skeletons turned their eyeless skulls in his direction, before raising their weapons and charging at him.

Orbeck didn’t hesitate. On instinct, he started to hurl fireballs at his incoming attackers. At first, they merely braced themselves, raising their weapons as they converged on him again. The mage responded by backing away but never ceased to hurl any magic he could think of. As he continued to attack them with both fireballs and sprays of lightning, it turned out they weren’t made of stern stuff. 

He watched as they quickly fell apart into a clattering pile, the sound impossible loud in the otherwise silent tunnel. He caught his breath, shivering all over, though he was certain it wasn’t because of the snow. Even after his adventures as an assassin and in Lothric, this was the most frightened he’d been in his life.

Still, somewhere in the back of his head, he realized that he was still alive and none the worse from wear. He’d survived, by use of his magic, his quick reaction and a little bit of luck. Especially that last one made him smile. Perhaps he wasn’t entirely out of luck at all…

Strengthened by that conviction, the sorcerer pushed on. Taking a sword from one of the fallen skeleton, he continued his way. He was still cold, still frightened, but now had an additional measure to defend himself and no intention to die here. He was going to fight, no matter what he encountered.

The tunnels quickly took him up on that challenge. As he proceeded, he quickly came upon the next nest of horror. When he was not cutting their tangled webs that blocked most of the passages, he was fighting off vicious, hungry monstrous spiders spitting poison and eager to devour him.

He rapidly retreated when the creatures closed in on him, casting every kind of spell the Oghma Infinium had taught him. He tried his best to dodge their poisonous projectiles and fangs, taking clumsy swings at them with his sword whenever they got too close. It seemed to take ages before the last one of them finally curled into a ball while shrieking its final breath and by then, he was tired and more than a little disturbed at his encounter with the monstrosities.

What disturbed him the most, however, was that it seemed that this place had been inhabited until recently. As he proceeded, he found food that was still fresh, empty bottles of alcohol, books, some furniture, tools and what looked like an alchemy station. Clearly, someone had been here not too long ago and had abandoned this place out of nowhere.

Yet as scary as that thought was, it provided a small measure of hope. Perhaps that meant that whomever was here had not gone far. It was possible that this person might be able to help him and possibly tell him just where he was and what had happened to him.

So he pressed on, no matter how fatigued, frozen and frightened he felt. Even when he could barely feel his own feet, when the tunnels seemed to get longer and darker the further he got. After all, he felt, they had to lead to an exit somewhere…

It seemed fortune smiled on him a little more when he entered a large, cave of ice and spied a chest upon some rocks. Gathering his wits, he chose to climb it. The slippery ice and sharp rock made his hand and feet chafe and bleed, but after several attempts, he managed to put himself up. He rapidly opened the chest and he could practically weep with joy at the contents. 

He swiftly donned the black robes, as well as the old and worn shoes and took what looked like a staff of some kind. He tested it, disappointed when it only yielded one particular sorcery, but decided to take it anyway. Once again, his odds had improved and with some protection against the weather and enemies, he grew bolder once again. 

Despite the fact every part of him was either numb or aching, he now felt more alive than ever. Something now told him there was indeed a method to the madness. The disembodied voice was right. He was going to make it. To where, he didn’t know, but that didn’t matter, just as long as he did.

Now fed, clothed and well-armed, he moved without fear and with an urgency that felt raw and primal. It reminded him of his days as an assassin, when he would move through the shadows with strength and grace. When he had nothing to go on but his wits and pure adrenaline to execute his task. He welcomed it wholeheartedly, determined to see his predicament through.

Even so, he also couldn’t resist reveling in all the strange things he saw in the tunnels. And what strange things did he see indeed. An odd black gauntlet, in the shape of a claw. Something that looked like a strange altar or “Atronach Forge”, according to the nearby book. All of these things were mysteries to him and he decided that once he got out of here, he would definitely study them.

Then, after what was either hours or days, he noticed the tunnels were changing. Rather than a straight line, they were instead turning to stairs, moving upwards. His heart skipped a beat when he realized it. No doubt it would lead him to the surface.

The sorcerer practically started to run at this realization. He scrambled up the stairs as quickly as he could, ignoring everyone and everything around him. This was it… He was going to get out. He was going to make it…

It was then and there that the sound of a ragged growl reached his ears. The mage halted, holding his sword at the ready. He carefully shuffled closer, readying a spell in his free hand, only to quickly freeze over at what came from the shadows.

The creature that shambled his way had his blood turn to ice. It was human, or at least, it had been once. It had cold, blue and glowing eyes without pupils and decayed flesh, rotted and mummified. Its vocal cords long torn and withered, it released guttural growls, long and gnarled fingers clawing in his direction. The sight of it felt scarily familiar to him. If anything, it reminded him of a Hollow…

The moment that thought came to him, he stood nailed to the ground. A million terrifying possibilities ran through his mind. Had this person died here as well? Hollowed beyond sanity, as it wandered through this tunnels? Did it mean, perhaps, that there was no way out after all.

That thought petrified him, more than the chilly air or the endless stone walls ever could. The idea of dying all over again, to perhaps once again slip into the cracks between reality. To have his goal, his dream of knowledge, be in vain and again die a lonely death.

The undead being came closer, raising his axe. Its maimed throat expelled curses in an old, unknown language. They almost sounded to him like taunts of his imminent death, mocking his fate. Mocking the fact that he’d braved so much in the name of knowledge. 

Knowledge…

That single word stirred something in him again. The same feeling that had helped him through this maze before, only stronger. Something stronger than mere instinct. Instead, there was a goal, a desire and he couldn’t bear the thought of going before he had attained that. It just didn’t make sense to do so.

He should have died, yet he was here. He’d roamed a black void and found a tome of which the likes he’d never seen. A being that called itself a god had pulled him from there and brought him here. Here, alive, in a situation to use everything he’d learned in that mysterious Oghma Infinium… There was no way on earth that it could all be for nothing.

He had made up his mind. He’d come this far. He didn’t want to die.

He turned back to the creature as it was a mere inch away from him, smirking. “You undead will _not_ get the best of me again!”

That smirk rapidly turned into a wide grin as he took a deep breath and called upon his newfound knowledge. His eyes met the undead’s and with a last chuckle of defiance, he acted before the axe could come down on him. Channeling his magic, he abandoned all caution and unleashed a giant firestorm. 

The shambling corpse shrieked in unearthly tones as the flames lapped at its rotting flesh. He watched it claw at its own seared skin, trying to put it out. Orbeck didn’t care if it succeeded. He had his own plan in mind. 

Pushing his tiredness aside, he leaped across the sea of flames and started running. As fast as he could, he clambered up the stairs, not daring to look behind him. The snow made him slip several times, but he pushed on, practically crawling on all fours as he ascended higher and higher. 

At last, he reached another corridor and, at the end of it, he spied a ladder. Without thinking, he pulled himself up. When he found a hatch at the top, he burst through and squirmed through the opening hanging on by his nails. He slammed it shut with his feet, only to catch his breath and find himself practically blinded.

Sunlight.

That notion had his heart pounding. Sunlight. It meant he was on the surface again. He’d escaped the dungeon, in one piece. He’d made it…

All of a sudden, laughter burst from his throat. A chuckle at first, only to quickly turn into a roar that bounced off the stone columns that became visible all around him. At the same time, he could feel tears streaming down his face. He swore he could feel his mind slipping that very moment, though that might simply be the fact that it was drained beyond rational thought and so was his body. 

He could only vaguely feel his own body hit the floor. His eyelids were heavy and he could practically see sweat pouring off him despite the fact it was still freezing. He was a mess, but the mage couldn’t care less as he curled up in a ball and allowed himself to rest.

He was safe… That was good enough for now…

Warmth…

He was somewhere warm. 

That was the first thing Orbeck noticed when he cracked his eyes open after felt like forever. That was odd, he realized. He felt woozy, but he very clearly remembered passing out in the outdoors. 

That last one particularly concerned him. That wasn’t right at all… Instantly, he was wide awake. He jerked up and looked around wide-eyed, only to feel even more confused. 

He found himself in what looked like a small bedroom, on a bed. There were a few cupboards against the walls, nightstands and a chair. He could see several strange plants and fungi lie on a nearby table, as well as some barrels. Yet what caught his attention above all else was a small tray of food beside him.

Even though part of him urged against it, he couldn’t contain himself. He practically tumbled out of the bed as he lunged over to it. He fingers clutched around the handle of the pitcher and put it to his mouth, moaning in delight as cool, clean water poured into his mouth. He then greedily started to devour the fruit and bread on the plate, desperate to fill his stomach. He was so focused that he didn’t pay much attention to anything else and didn’t even notice anyone approaching. 

“Oh, you’re up. Good to know.”

Orbeck practically jumped at the female voice behind him. He spun around, only to petrify at the sight of the owner. She was dressed in simple robes, something about them making him think she was a mage herself. She was not human and if anything, her appearance eerily reminded him of Xarxes, except that her eyes were red and her skin was gray. Still, he refrained from outright mentioning that, staying where he was and eyeing her warily.

She chuckled at seeing his reaction. “Don’t worry. I don’t mean you any harm. We brought you here after we found you passed out in the courtyard.”

Those last words caught his attention. So the dungeon he was in led to a courtyard and this woman found him there… That certainly explained how he had suddenly ended up here. Wherever “here” was. Perhaps that was a very good question to ask.

“Where am I?”

“The College of Winterhold.”

He frowned, the name not saying anything to him. “Where is that?”

“In the city of Winterhold, in the Hold of the same name, in the province of Skyrim.”

The collection of names she mentioned did precisely nothing to help Orbeck’s confusion. He simply blinked, trying to think of anything intelligent to say. Wherever he was, it was probably a very long way from either Lothric or Vinheim. 

The strange woman didn’t miss his cluelessness. “You have absolutely no idea of where you are.”

He shook his head. Of course he didn’t. He didn’t even know how he got here. Or at least, he didn’t know how to explain it without sounding absolutely insane. The last thing he wanted was for this woman to deem him crazy and lock him up again. Still, knowing he had nothing to lose, he figured he might as well.

“Indeed, I do not. This might sound utterly strange to you, but I came here from a place called Lothric. Some…being called Xarxes sent me here. I woke up in some underground tunnel, where a strange…energy told me to leave. So I left and then ended up in your courtyard…”

He could tell that the longer he went on, the more the woman was staring. He could feel himself slowly deflate. If she didn’t think he was crazy before, she certainly did now. At least, until she spoke again.

“You come from the Midden? And met an Altmeri God?”

Her voice sounded curious, inquisitive, with only a minimal hint of skepticism. It surprised him immensely, but at the same time, he felt a tiny hint of comfort. So she knew who Xarxes was as well… That was a good start. 

He smiled, feeling a little more confident and deciding to observe formalities. “I think so. I am sorry, I must sound like a madman and frankly, I cannot make sense of it myself. Anyway…if you were indeed the one who saved me, I thank you. For the food and the bed.”

Instantly, she returned the expression and he realized her face started to look less alien by the minute. “You’re welcome, sera. We’ve definitely seen worse here at the College. Though I suggest you rest a bit more before you do anything else. You look like you’ve been through a lot. My name is Brelyna. If you need me, just call. I’ll be here, tending to my experiments.”

She gave him a nod and planned to walk off, but those last few words had Orbeck perk up. “Experiments?”

She smiled. “Alchemical experiments. This is a College of Mages. We practice all schools of sorcery, alchemy and enchanting.” 

Hardly had she said those words or the mage could practically jump for joy. This was a place that studied magic? Away from those snobs at Vinheim? In this bizarre place he’d ended up at, there was actually a place that offered an alternative for his dreams?

He could hear how Brelyna looked at him hesitantly. “I can understand if you’re not comfortable with it. Most Nords here aren’t.”

The sorcerer shook his head, almost frantically. “Oh no, not at all! Not in the slightest!”

As he tried his best to reassure her, he could practically feel his hands starting to shake. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this excited. By the Gods, he couldn’t remember the last time he actually felt this happy.

It had been worth it, after all. His death to attain knowledge in the Grand Archives. Him finding the Oghma Infinium and gleaning its contents. The meeting with a strange and unknown God. It was not a mere fever dream brought on by hope. His will to survive, to pursue his passions, now had meaning.

Here, he could be what he always wanted to be. What he’d come to Vinheim for in the first place. Here, he could learn all the secrets of magic in peace and leave his dark past of an assassin behind. He laughed. Xarxes had not lied to him. He indeed brought him to a good place and given him all the tools he needed to get started.

“A College of Sorcery, you say? Is there any way a lost and homeless mage such as myself can apply?”


	16. The Beginning of Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirris fights for a new master and a second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far, I've been getting some responses about which DSIII male characters people want to see in the crossovers. At this point, the answer apparently mostly boils down to "as many as you can". While I'm flattered, I'm running out of Elder Scrolls deities and still don't have enough females to my liking for the lineup. So I might put this series on halt temporarily and work on the Bloodborne one instead, as I've already established the lineup there.  
> So this series isn't cancelled or discontinued. I'll simply work on the other crossover first and hope that by the time that's done, the second DSIII DLC has come out and maybe provide me with some more cool girls for this series.  
> Also, thanks for all your support. I love the fact people enjoy this weird crossover. :)

All her life, Sirris of Anor Londo, the Sunless Realms, had struggled. That was par for the course for anyone who came from the land of the Old Gods. Yet some would say that she might have struggled more than most.

Was it really so strange then, that she wanted an end to it? She had lost everything now. Her parents when she was young. Her comrades in the treacherous streets of Anor Londo. Her beloved master Gwyndolyn and his family when Aldrich came. And now, she had to put her own grandfather out of his misery, while her grandmother’s days were coming to an end.

Killing grandpa Hodrick was the single hardest thing she had ever done. This man… This beautiful, brilliant man who had loved and cared for her the way he’d done for her mother. Who gave her her first sword and told her how to fight and taught her everything he knew… To see him like this, this mad and lost, and to have to drive a blade through his heart was unbearable and had she not had help, she could have never done it. It took the last of her resolve and after fulfilling her debt, she felt she could go on no longer.

Was it such a sin then, that she chose to took her own life? There was only so much loss someone could take over their lifetime, especially when the very world was crumbling. With her grandfather put to rest, so could she and she quite happily embraced her own demise.

For the longest time, she felt like she was sleeping. After her heart ceased its final beats and her final breath left her lips, she slipped into an endless night. A darkness, so black and so absolute it lulled her into an immense sense of peace and calmness. It urged her to rest, to slumber, to finally rest after so much hardship.

So she did. Suspended amidst darkness, she slept. Lost to time and space, healing from a life of suffering, dreaming of better days.

“Sirris...”

At first, she barely heard it, and what consciousness remained wrote it off as a figment of her dreams. 

Yet the longer she remained in her slumbering state, the louder it became. A voice, deep and ethereal, calling her name. It crept through the dark, making it tremble under its strength. It beckoned her to open her eyes, to cease dreaming. It beseeched her to come and find the source.

Eventually, it stirred her from her torpor. She awoke, carefully rising and trying to determine where the sound came from. As much as she reveled in her rest, she couldn’t ignore it. So she followed, compelled by a power beyond mere logic.

As if in trance, she waded through nothingness, following a voice that sounded like a siren’s song. As she walked, completely enthralled, she was blind to the world around her shifting and changing. It ceased to be dark and all around her objects morphed into existence. Soon, she had left the dark behind her completely and found herself standing in a whole new world.

Suddenly, as sudden as it began, the spell was broken. Reason returned to Sirris’s mind and she looked around, only for terror to grip her. The place she saw was nothing like Lothric. Not an apocalyptic landscape of rot. No, this was a world bent completely out of shape, where the laws of nature didn’t even matter…

The sky became the ground, the heavens turned into water and objects and strange creatures faced in and out of existence. Gravity didn’t even seem to apply and everything seemed to spiral both inward and outward at the same time. She could feel herself becoming nauseous at the mere sight and her entire mind was set to fleeing. At least, until her eyes met with a being that definitely wasn’t human.

“Greetings, Sirris of the Sunless Realms.”

The sound of her own name had her still and she looked up at it with widened eyes. What she saw was a man, or at least the general approximation of one. Yet this creature’s skin was gleaming and metallic, brilliant silver given form. Its armor, or perhaps it was part of its actual body, was made of the same material. Something about him made her feel he was rather powerful and that it might not be wise to incite his anger. 

So, on instinct, she bowed to him, earning his approval. “You are wise to acknowledge your superiors. I am Jyggalag, Daedric Prince of Order. I am pleased to make my acquaintance with you.”

The Darkmoon Blade quietly listened, trying her best not to show too much confusion. She had no clue what a Daedric Prince was, but the title indicated importance. Whatever this creature was, she couldn’t help but feel that he was the one who called her and the one who summoned here into this strange, mad world.

“Have you brought me here, Lord Jyggalag?”

The being smiled. “Indeed I have. I found you, sliding into darkness and woke you from your slumber.”

She quietly accepted this information, deciding to ask further before doing anything else. “What is this place?” 

“The Void of Oblivion. This is my home, but I am a king without a kingdom. Though I do not intend to be for long.”

Sirris stared at him, without understanding, and he continued. “Oblivion is a large realm. It has many planes, some of them occupied by others of my kind and many unknown ones, empty canvasses waiting to be painted. I intend to claim one of these for my own.”

She quietly listened to that explanation. So this otherworldly being was a crownless king of sorts, aiming to claim a territory. That was all well and good, yet she didn’t understand why he was telling her this. Why had he even summoned her in the first place? Her, a human who didn’t even know who he was?

“What does that have to do with me, My Lord?”

He smiled. “Every ruler needs a champion. I intend you to fulfill this role.”

There was a certain casualness to his words, an eerie ease with the situation he’d just plain down, but Sirris could instantly feel a rush of panic washing over her. She was to be his champion? Fight on his behalf? She had definitely not agreed to that!

How was she supposed to be his champion anyway? He seemed like a being of immense power, more than capable of fighting his own battles. She, on the other hand, was a mere human. A weak, downtrodden and broken woman who had taken her life out of sheer exhaustion and grief. How was a wretch like her supposed to repressed a creature of such strength and stature?

“I am flattered, Lord Jyggalag, but I cannot do such a thing. I am but a tired, forlorn soul, who took her own life to sleep eternally. I am not fit to fight on anyone’s behalf.”

She herself realized just how pathetic it sounded. So much so that she felt embarrassed by it herself. Still, she was not going to deny the truth. After all she’d gone though, she was not fit to serve any kind of master.

She felt how the creature looked down at her, studying her. Despite his even, compassed expression, she could see many things in his eyes. What she didn’t see, however, was disgust or even pity. When he spoke, his words reflected that.

“I strongly disagree, Sirris. Your soul is not a wretched one at all. I sense a strength in you, a fierceness and purity few possess. It is why I want you for my champion. Fear not, I will make it worth your while. I may be a Daedric Prince, but I am aware nothing is for nothing. Such is the order of things, after all.”

He spoke with so much sincerity that it was almost hilarious to her. For a supposedly powerful creature, he was rather blind to think of her as fierce or pure. What’s more, he actually thought to ply her with rewards. Such a fool… She was dead. She had no need for anything anymore. 

“What could you possibly offer me that I would want?”

A smile formed on his face. “A second chance. A life with fewer hardships in a less cruel world. Would that be a fair tradeoff to you?”

That offer, made so easily and so swiftly, caught her off guard. She looked at him, skeptically, or more like in disbelief. Returning her to life… Was he truly capable of that? She refused to believe that. Even Gwyndolyn had not been capable of something so grand. Surely he had to be jesting.

Yet then…

Did it truly matter if he was, she wondered? Here she was, in this horrible plane of existence that seemed out permanently out of joint. She saw no way to get out of here on her own merits and the comforting darkness seemed far away. What choice did she really have but to accept his offer, on the chance it would work out?

She sighed realizing the truth of that assessment and lowered her head, nodding to indicate her acceptance of that deal. “Very well, lord Jyggalag. I accept your offer. In return, I shall be your champion.”

The moment she said that, everything about the being seemed to change. His expression didn’t change, but he seemed immensely pleased by her consent. It almost made her wonder. How many others had actually agreed to throw in their lot with him?

“Splendid. You have made a wise choice. Now, let us proceed then. Let us explore Oblivion, in search of a new realm.”

It was then, in the blink of an eye, that they were no longer alone. Seeping into this plane, like fluid from a cracked water skin, were knights. Endless rows of them, seemingly made of the same silver-colored substance as Jyggalag himself. They instantly assumed a perfect formation, not a step of movement out of line. All at the same time, their heads turned towards their master, waiting patiently for his next action. 

The Darkmoon Blade gasped as something else came into existence next to her. A beautiful white horse, a palfrey she assumed, stood waiting for her to mount it. She did so after Jyggalag nodded for her to do so and could only watch in rapt fascination as he produced a mount of his own, an unspeakable but beautiful beast for which she could find no words to describe it. He raised his swords and ordered his troops to march and within seconds, the entire party for on its way.

Sirris followed, not knowing what else she could do, and quickly found herself traveling across the planes of what her new master called Oblivion. Honestly, she could see why this place got that name. Some religions from her plane of existence believed in damnation, but this… This was something else entirely. 

This world felt like a maelstrom of creation, pulled apart and clumsily put back together, without regard for laws of nature or logic. It was a constantly shifting, constantly changing, giving way to visions of immense beauty and intense horror, sometimes both at the same time. She could feel herself become both nauseous and enthralled as she witnesses these sights and eventually, she simply focused on riding and engaging the being she had just sworn fealty to.

Her new master was happy to answer her questions when she inquired. His story was no less bizarre than the plane they were traversing. Once upon a time, he was a powerful creature in Oblivion, controlling vast swaths of it. Yet his rule had disturbed others of his kind and they had overthrown him, cursing him to become a God of Madness, Sheogorath. 

He had lived like that for many years, only occasionally being able to revert to his true form during an event called the Greymarch, only to then swiftly revert back to madness once it ended. It was only very recently, in immortal time that was, that he had been freed from his curse. And while the mind of Sheogorath lived on in the hero that freed him, ruling over his realm of the Shivering Isles, he was currently without a domain. Something he now intended to rectify.

That was all well and good to Sirris, but one question didn’t leave her mind. “What exactly do you need me for, my Lord? I doubt I can find you a new kingdom. I am less familiar with these realms than you are.”

A chuckle rose from the creature’s throat. “I am aware of that. Yet I fear finding a new plane to call my own will not be as hard as actually claiming it.”

That ominous statement had her on edge. “Do you expect trouble?”

He nodded. “There might be. The kind that would not be wise to engage with an army…”

Common sense told the woman to inquire further, but the reptilian part of her mind simply did not want to. This place sent a constant chill up her spine and with her unable to make anything of it, she figured it was best not to think about it too much. She’d deal with it as it come.

That was a good decision. As time went by, either crept or flew, she slowly grew more attuned to this world and the strange creatures with whom she traveled. She grew more jaded to it bizarreness and simply found solace in riding her horse, comforting herself with the only bit of normalcy she had right now. 

Then, after felt perhaps a lifetime, the entire army halted. She too stopped her horse and it was there that she realized something was indeed different. She finally dared look up, only for her jaw to fall open.

This place didn’t feel like the others they had traversed. It wasn’t swirling or chaotic. Instead, it was silent, empty. A blank expanse, without any trace of life. Her breath halted. This had to be one of those empty planes Jyggalag had spoken about.

She glanced at her master as he surveyed the area. She could swear she saw approval on his part and he soon turned to his men, ordering them to halt. He then turned to her, nodding.

“I think we found it. This plane is uncharted, unspoiled. It could suit me well as a home.”

He dismounted the beast he rode on and stood on the ground, or whatever passed for it. He took a few steps, as if to drink in this new frontier. He seemed pleased, though Sirris could only guess how a world so empty and lifeless as this one could make a proper home. 

“Claiming new territory is my sphere, Prince of Order! Not that of the fallen and discarded, whose mind was prison to madness!”

The Darkmoon Blade jumped, as a deep and cruel voice suddenly rang across the landscape. Instantly, her hand moved to her estoc and she moved closer to her new master in an effort to protect him. Jyggalag, however, remained utterly calm and his retort was measured and at ease.

“Conquest and settlement are two different things entirely, Mehrunes Dagon. Not that you would know. Those who wield a warhammer cannot conceive of using a scalpel.”

Then and there, the woman could feel theirs was no longer the only party on this plane. Suddenly, there were others. Rows and rows of strange creatures appeared before them, with the faces of demons and clutching a variety of weapons. They sight of them alone was enough to send a chill up her spine.

Yet all of them paled in comparison to the creature that led them. A gigantic red demon with four arms and horns protruding from nearly every part of its face. One look at him and Sirris knew this creature was the epitome of evil. He spoke again.

“Why cut away the tumors if you can purify everything with fire? As I should do to you. We overthrew you once, Jyggalag. We can do so again. And you are not nearly as powerful now as you were back then.”

Her master’s expression never changed. “Neither are you. Even in Oblivion, rumors abound. Your most recent attempt to conquer Nirn was a miserable failure, all because you underestimated one otherworldly woman. You are in no shape to fight.”

This time, the demonic being, Mehrunes Dagon as Jyggalag called him, didn’t respond. Instead, he subject her master to a deadly glare and she could see its muscles twitch with fury. She didn’t quite understand what the silver man had said, but it had clearly touched a nerve. 

“It seems then we are at an impasse. Neither of us will leave and neither of us is in any shape to vanquish the other nor to sacrifice any troops. So what say you to an alternative? A trial by combat. I present a champion and so do you. The one who prevails may claim this plane.”

Hardly had those words passed her lips or Sirris stiffened. Suddenly, she understood just why the Daedric Prince was so eager to get his hands on her. No doubt he’d seen this coming and wished to come prepared. He’d chosen well then. Even now, after so much suffering, she was still a Blade of the Darkmoon, after all.

A smirk came to the lips of the red demon. “Very well, Jyggalag. I accept your challenge. Bring forth your champion and I shall present you mine, so they can find on our behalves.”

The silver creature nodded and gestured at her to step forward, which she did. “Behold, my champion. Sirris of the Sunless Realms beyond Nirn. Whom do you choose?”

She could practically see a predatory grin on the demon’s face and he started laughing. “You wish such a small, fragile runt to fight on your behalf? Very well. Then I will present you my champion!”

A loud growl thundered through the air and from the mass of demons stomped one looking even bigger and fiercer than all of them combined. A gigantic monster, similar to a dragon and a crocodile tore its way to the empty area between the armies. It slammed its teeth together, saliva leaking from its jaws as it eyed her. Then and there she knew. This…thing didn’t see her as an opponent. It saw her as prey.

With one look over her shoulder, she could see an alarmed expression on her master’s face. Clearly, he had not anticipated this and for a moment, behind that cool exterior, he seemed to be scrambling for ways to get her out of this. This didn’t go unnoticed by Mehrunes Dagon and he laughed cruelly.

“You didn’t specify any requirements for a champion, Prince of Order. Kill her, Daedroth! Vanquish the pathetic mortal and feast on her flesh for my glory!”

Sirris didn’t even get the time to prepare. The moment it heard its master’s words, the monster charged at her. It opened its mouth, trying to swallow her in one bite and end the fight swiftly.

That was where it was wrong. 

Using her speed and agility to her advantage, Sirris easily ducked under the attack. Seeing an opportunity, she lashed out with her sword, hitting it square in the chest before quickly getting out of range. Her first strike drew blood, however little of it, and the moment the Daedroth noticed it, it let out a roar that made her ears bleed.

The creature viciously lunged at her, its long claws only missing her by an inch. She retaliated by slashing at the fingers, trying to drive the beast back. Its thick skin kept her from making progress and her adversary made its irritation known by opening its mouth and unleashing a jet of fire. 

She only barely had time to scramble out of the way, shrugging off the embers that threatened to set her clothes on fire. As she did, the creature tried to bite her in two once more and she practically fell backwards to avoid its snapping jaws. Another stab at the snout yielded nothing and she caught on to the foremost trait of her opponent.

A leathery skin that could stop swords and arrows in its tracks. 

She cursed quietly, but it quickly died in her throat as Daedroth continued on the offensive. Soon, she was doing more running than fighting, as the creature unleashed a rain of teeth, claws and fire upon her. She swiftly called upon her healing magic to heal the burns and slashes, but didn’t even get the chance. The demon was much faster than its size suggested and she quickly found herself running for her life. 

The next ten minutes were pure torture. She tried her best to twist and dodge, to stay out of the monster’s range, but it was nigh impossible. She couldn’t even land a hit on it as every inch of it was covered in armor-like skin. The creature seemed to get more energetic as the fight grew on, whereas she grew more tired. When she noticed it, she was practically trembling. 

Was this how she was going to die? After everything she did to end her life with dignity? Was she going to die in this no man’s land, mere food for a demon? That thought made her retch. 

What Jyggalag said was a lie. It had to be. He never intended to give her her life back. He never thought of her survival, just his own. It had been a lie to put herself up for slaughter. And now, she was on the chopping block, to be devoured by a monster. She was deadly afraid and it was clear Mehrunes Dagon delighted in it. 

“Oh, stop running, mortal! Fight! At least face your miserable end with dignity! You get to scream while you’re eaten!”

The casual cruelty in his voice cut down to her soul. To be seen as something so wretched and undeserving of mercy. To this red demon, this wasn’t even a fight. This was simply throwing a lamb to the wolves and watching it be torn to shreds as entertainment. She had done many demeaning things to lose her sense of self as she had, but this was too much.

Yet at the same time, it awakened something in her. A sense of pride and viciousness, one that had made her successful as a Blade of the Darkmoon. She had not felt it since she left Anor Londo. Her heart beat faster, adrenaline rushed through her veins and taking hold of her being was a primal desire to live. To survive and obliterate anything that stood between her and the promise of a Prince of Order. 

Her eyes turned to the Daedroth and she swore she could see her reflection in his. She smiled. The red demon had chosen brawn of finesse, not so much a warrior as a weapon of mass destruction. That was going to be his big mistake. If he wasn’t going to play fair, then neither was she.

Kissing her own sword for good luck, she clutched her talisman in her free hand and called upon a magic barrier. She then casually walked up to her approaching enemy and it responded by bathing her in flame. As the barrier crackled under the onslaught, she started running. 

Within seconds, she had reached the monster’s head and struck. She rolled to the side and faced it, knowing it was exactly where she wanted. Without a moment’s hesitation, she lifted her estoc and, in one swift and elegant move, drove it deep into the creature’s eye. 

The scream it unleashed nearly rendered her deaf, but she didn’t care. Instead, she pulled back her sword and leaped up onto its head. She climbed over to the other side and stabbed out the other eye. 

Almost immediately, the demon started bucking and flailing, panicked and furious as it tried to get her off them. She held on tightly, calmly kicking its face with a free foot. Acting on its animal instinct, it opened its jaws to bite it off and then and there, it sealed its fate. 

Faster than it could respond, Sirris leaned down and stabbed the creature in the mouth, pushing in her sword all the way to the throat. It wanted to scream again, but instead, a muffled sound came out. She casually jumped off, leaving her weapon where it was, deaf to the sound of the Daedroth choking on its own blood. She only looked up when its lifeless body thudded against the ground, only to then turn her gaze to Mehrunes Dagon.

The face of the red demon was priceless, to say the least. His self-satisfied smirking was melting from his face, replaced by a look of sheer horror and disbelief. As frightening as it was, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of malicious glee at it and actually found it in her to smirk, challenging with the sheer fact she stood here alive.

That was all it took. The being rose, weapons appearing and magic forming at each of the four arms, poised to strike her down in a fit of rage. But he didn’t even get the chance. 

“It looks like I win, Prince of Conquest.”

The Darkmoon Blade didn’t know just when Jyggalag had appeared beside her, weapon at the ready. “My champion defeated yours and thus you must go. Be gone and crawl back to the Deadlands.”

The silver man’s icy cold tone was enough. The Prince of Conquest lowered his weapons, glaring at his adversary. A snarl passed his lips.

“This is not over, Jyggalag. I will wrest this power from you again. That is what I do.”

The Prince of Order gave him a cool glance. “I know. And I will be waiting. Now be gone.”

With a last curse whispered under his breath, Mehrunes Dagon then made his retreat and soon, the no man’s land turned silent once more. Sirris wasn’t even aware that she was holding her breath until tried to draw in another and found herself startled by her master’s voice.

“You have served me well, Sirris. I was not wrong in choosing you as my champion.”

She turned to him, hesitantly nodded. “Thank you, Lord Jyggalag. I have vanquished your foe, though forgive me if I cannot see why taking this empty, dead realm is considered a victory.”

He looked down at her from his enormous height and for the first time, she swore she saw him smile. “You will see soon enough.”

Hardly had he spoken or the Darkmoon Blade felt something happening. As they stood there, amidst a plane of endless nothing, it started to shift and change. It was as if this whole world started to respond to the Daedric Prince’s very presence.

As if called upon by strange powers, she saw the plane twist and bend to his will. A landscape started forming, ancient trees and perfectly kept gardens. Large plazas of gleaming stone. Silver towers rose up from nothing, in beautiful symmetrical shapes. A beautiful world flowed into existence before her very eyes, not a hair out of place, every little bit befitting of a Prince of Order. 

She simply watched with baited breath, amazed to be a witness to such power. Even now, she was certain that she was dreaming, that something like this could not possibly be real. A sentiment that remained even her master spoke again, overlooking this world with the same level of satisfaction she did. 

“At last, I have a realm to call my own again. A domain from which to reign. I owe this all to you, Sirris of the Sunless Realms and I shall not forget this. Thus, accept your reward…”

That last word had her perk up and she turned in his direction, but before she could ask anything, he placed both hands on her forehead. She marveled at how cold they felt, like an odd mix of metal and flesh. She looked up at him, only to find him genuinely smiling.

“Fear not. I will bring you to Nirn. A mortal world, but one that is alive and not dying like your old one. There, you can live out the rest of your life, as you see fit.”

The Darkmoon Blade quietly listened to those words, still spoken in that calm and even voice. Still, she felt that he meant it and when an otherworldly pull started to overcome her, she did not resist. Instead, she eased into the darkness that swept over her, smiling as she heard her master’s last words to her. 

“Fare thee well, Sirris. Your deeds will not be forgotten.”

When Sirris opened her eyes, after the Gods knew how long, the first thing she noticed was the sun. A sun, she only barely realized, didn’t look like it was about to collapse and fade. Especially after the almost surreal imagery of fighting for an unknown God. That was strange, she thought. More than a little strange…

“Such an odd dream…”

Becoming aware that she was lying sprawled onto the ground, she rose. Yet any conviction she had that she was dreaming instantly faded when she did. The cool breeze she felt was all too real. As was the sight of her own naked body.

A feeling of panic swept over her and she tried desperately to keep her modesty, only for her eye to fall on something lying beside her. It was an armor, seemingly made for a woman her size. Made of a silver-like, crystalline material, like the knights of the God she had seen in her visions…

So it had all been real after all…

She didn’t dwell on that thought for too long. Instead, she quickly donned the armor, relieved to have some manner of protection. It was only then that she noticed a second item. A beautiful silver sword. 

A soft smile came to her lips, pleased to see that Jyggalag had indeed not forgotten her. She calmly sheathed the weapon on her belt, before staring up at the sky and enjoying the sun on her face. What was the last time she actually felt the sun?

As she looked around, she could tell this world was beautiful. With pine forests and beautiful mountain ranges as far as the eye could see. The air was somewhat chilly, but it felt wild and untamed, teeming with life. That last one was enough for her. Her old one had brought her nothing but pain and if this world had not given up on life, then there was a chance for her…

Noticing she lay besides a path on some kind, curiosity overtook her and she decided to follow it. It didn’t take long for it to lead to a small settlement, visible in the distance. She had to admit it was rather pleasant to see it. Wherever she had ended up, it was at least not a world where she was alone.

Within less than an hour, she arrived and crossed the bridge across the river, adorned with the stone head of a dragon. She gained a few strange looks as she entered the town, but no one particularly worried by her presence. A thought she found rather comforting after so long as a feared Darkmoon Blade.

After a few minutes of considering her options, Sirris decided to go to the town’s inn first. She had no money to pay for a drink or food, but basic directions were usually free. If there was any chance of getting her bearings, she should start there.

The Four Shields Inn was small and intimate. A far cry from Anor Londo’s pompous establishments, but Sirris found she quite liked it. She made her way up to the counter and when she saw the innkeeper was busy serving drinks to a patron, she patiently waited until she was free to answer some questions. After all, she had all the time in the world now…

“That is quite the unusual armor you have.”

A female voice had her look up. A tall woman with braided strawberry blond hair, the one the innkeeper was serving drinks to, was looking her up and down, curiously inspecting her gear. Quite a beautiful woman, she noted, though now was not the time to think about that. Her face betrayed no emotion and only the Gods knew if it was simply curious interest or suspicion that fueled the remark. Her sudden interest had the Darkmoon Blade on edge and she was cautious in responding.

“Thank you.”

She then turned to the counter, desperately hoping the innkeeper would be available. The woman, however, wasn’t that easily discouraged. She continued to look at her, takin a sip from her drink. 

“You are not from here.”

That statement had Sirris grow cold all over and she tried to gain her composure. “How would you know?”

Finally, she cracked a little bit of a smile. “I have lived here for quite a while and have a good memory of the town’s denizens and regular visitors. That and you seem rather lost.”

By now, the Darkmoon Blade was seriously considering turning tail and leaving this town. She was not comfortable with the questions the woman asked, especially seeing how persistent she was. A quick look at her armor indicated she might be a soldier of some kind. Was she determining whether to arrest her for some perceived trouble? Especially since she wasn’t content to just leave her be.

“So, where are you from?”

The shorter woman shook her head, somehow feeling the truth would not help her. “I do not think you would know the place I come from.”

All she got was a smirk in response as the taller female leaned closer. “Try me.”

Sirris could feel panic rising in her stomach. Just why wouldn’t this nosy soldier leave her alone? Her mind desperately scrambled for some convincing lie as to where she came from, but knowing nothing of where she was, it came up with nothing. So eventually, with clenched muscles and a red face, she decided to go with the truth.

“Well, you would not believe me if I said I came from the Sunless Realms?”

All of a sudden, swifter than a thought, the smile had disappeared from the blond woman’s face. She stared at her, transfixed and Sirris’s discomfort only grew. She was certain the woman was now convinced she was crazy. At least, until she spoke, her eyes large and her mouth agape. 

“…You are from Anor Londo?”

Now, it was the Darkmoon Blade’s turn to be shocked. She looked her over, noting just how well she seemed to fit into this strange world, and found herself shaking her head. This woman actually knew the city of the Gods? She didn’t know whether to feel happy or astonished at that.

“Y-yes. I am…”

The blond woman studied her, before asking her next question. “Did a god of some kind bring you here?”

If the shorter woman’s mind wasn’t working on overdrive before, it certainly was now. Here was a stranger, a person whom she had never met before in an alien world, who knew not only her place of birth but even how she got here. But how? How could she possibly consider, what’s more accept, such a bizarre thing?

“H-how do you know?”

The taller female chuckled, before motioning to one of the benches. “It is a very long story. Come, sit with me. It’s no doubt an interesting tale and I have few people to share it with.”

Sirris could only nod quietly. Even though she still had a ton of questions, her distrust was slowly ebbing away. It was clear above anything that this stranger actually believed her story and seemed far too knowledgeable of what happened to her to simply make things up. Perhaps she could actually explain what happened to her and, more importantly, help her out in this odd place.

As such, she decided there was no harm in spending some more time with this unusual lady. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain. It would probably do her good to be among friendly people again. Especially when the woman turned back to the innkeeper and ordered a drink and some food for her on her dime. 

Soon, the two of them were seated and the Darkmoon Blade was happily munching away at some cooked beef with tomatoes, bread and goat cheese, meanwhile sipping a rather delectable beverage called mead. Her host happily let her for a moment, allowing her to sate herself. It was only when she had a few bites in her stomach that she spoke again. 

“So before I tell you my tale, you still have not told me who you are.”

Feeling that she owed her generous helper at least some courtesy, the shorter woman answered without hesitation this time. “I am Sirris. Of Anor Londo, as you know. So what is your story?”

A broad, beautiful smile was her response. “Nice to meet you, Sirris. I am Lucatiel, originally from Mirrah and I welcome you to Dragon Bridge. Now let me tell you how I got here…”


	17. Web of Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ringfinger Leonhard finds himself alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is easily the single hardest chapter of this crossover series that I've written so far. If only for the simple fact that I really don't care much about Leonhard. I always just straightup ignore his questline, contrary to a lot of the Soulsborne fandom who clearly consider him a favorite. Still, I decided he was a good challenge and I decided to do him first so I got him out of the way, but it sure wasn't easy and if this story sucks, that is probably why. XD
> 
> Secondly, since I ended up with a lot more DSIII characters eligable for chapters than DSI and DSII characters, expect a lot of cameos where I can get away with them. I just enjoy dropping Soulsborne characters in this setting way too much, so a few of my favorites who didn't have a shot at a chapter of their own will probably make it in here anyway. :)
> 
> Thirdly, according to one of the artbooks (such as The Old Hunters Strategy Guide), the Afflicted Beggar is actually Irreverent Izzy. While I'm not sure it's canon, it's the closest thing to definitive identity I have on either character. So that's what I'm going with for this one.

What was a life without purpose?

Leonhard had asked himself that question many times. He himself had rarely lived aimlessly. There was always something he fought for, something he wished to achieve. And if there was none, he was always quick to find it. 

He’s been many things throughout his life. A child of royal blood. A sorcerer. A wanderer. A Finger of Rosaria. It was that last one he took particular pride in, so much so that he would have given anything to maintain his status as her knight. Even kill the Lady Rosaria himself, so other might not defile her soul and he could keep it safe forever. 

Yet her soul had flown from him, taken by that bestial Unkindled and he was gone.

Gone to where, he didn’t know. This place was not the blackness he’d expected death to be. This place felt alive, yet rotten in unspeakable ways, the likes of which Lady Rosaria couldn’t hold a candle to.

First, it was simply dark. Yet as his eyes adjusted, he could see a twisted world unfold. A web, or was it a wheel, the spokes and threads all tracing back to a center in the far distance. There, he caught a glimpse of a giant spire, ravaged by time and corruption, its very stones bearing witness to centuries of sin and suffering.

Not knowing what else to do, he headed towards it. He shrugged off the foreboding shivers that traveled up and down his spine, a primal sense of unease that had never taken hold of him before now. After all, nothing could be accomplished, standing here on the edges of an uncertain afterlife.

As he walked, however, he soon realized that this place was a dark one indeed. He started to walk around the wheel first, to see the best road to make it to the center. As he looked across every thread, to determine the route with the least resistance, he saw many things and all of them were haunting beyond words.

One was a cavern, filled with pedestals to hold up an invisible sky. For a moment, he swore he saw a familiar face there. The doctor that served his family, coming towards him arms outstretched. Once again, he promised that he could heal the burns that covered his body. He could practically feel them sting upon hearing this and without saying a word, he moved on.

The second thread looked like cramped chambers. They too held familiar faces. His brothers, laughing and smiling, swaggering and spending as they always did. Even now, he felt angry seeing them. Even with his scars, why had his family always favored these wastrels over him? He turned away, a bitter taste in his mouth.

The other threads were equally unsettling. Maggot-filled grottos, full of whores and lovers past who had always betrayed him in the end. Dark tunnels where he could see the wolves that had once tried to devour him in the woods when he was a boy. Grand halls, one in which his brothers killed their parents once more, the blood of their slit throats mixing with the wine. Another an arena where he found Rosaria’s bloodied corpse whispering to him. One nearly tempted him to go in as he swore he could see her soul in there, amidst an arcade of avarice with all the treasures of the earth that one could ever want, but he wisely backed away.

It was only at the last spoke of the wheel that he stood petrified. It wasn’t a familiar face that greeted him here, but it was something he would never forget. A skein of fire, bringing back horrific memories of that fire in the library that scarred him, yellow flames as far as the eye could see, screeching and roaring as they heralded the certainty of death.

He felt fear for the briefest moment, yet for some reason, he found himself stepping into them. A strange calmness came over him and he proceeded forward, through the inferno. After all, life had already seared his flesh and life had been taken from him. What did he still have to fear from death?

Leonhard walked through the flames without fear yet it was with utter curiosity that he noticed the fire didn’t touch him. It seemed to scamper in front of his feet, clearing the path to an unknown destination. The heat, while intense, didn’t melt his flesh, instead encasing him in a pleasant warmth that eased the pain of his scars for once. 

It almost felt like the warmth settled into his very skin. It tugged at the mangled flesh, smoothening it, filling out the parts ravaged by fire so long ago. The agony that had been his companion for so many years faded, almost as if these strange, supernatural flames…purified him.

The phenomenon unsettled him yet at the same time, he didn’t think of turning back. Something awaited him at the center of this strange hub, he was certain of it. Whether it was a good or bad thing was debatable, of course, but it was not like him to keep fate waiting. 

Eventually, the fire gave way to a courtyard and he found the shadow of the giant tower loom over him. The very sight of it gave him shivers, but he nonetheless walked towards it doors and pushed them open. He passed through a hallway, then found himself in a splendid parlor. 

The room was beautiful, yet even here he couldn’t shake the unnatural sense of corruption. Uncomfortable at the idea of staying, he started to climb the stairs, coiling upwards like a snake, curious what he would find at the top. It was a long climb, one that strangely didn’t tire him out, yet when he reached at the top, he was surprised to find a completely empty hall. 

He frowned. Somehow, he had expected something grander after his strange journey through the underworld. At least, wasn’t he in the underworld? Either way, surely his strange journey would lead to something more immersive than any empty space.

“Oh, what’s this? A little fly that made its way to the center of my web?”

The voice, crawly and cajoling, had him stand up straight. His eyes widened and he fought not to snap his head in all directions all at once. Especially not when he felt cold hands placed on his shoulders and lips pressed against his ear, whispering.

“Mortals were not meant to enter the Spiral Skein, much less my Pillar Palace. But then, I don’t think you came here from Nirn… Oh, you are quite the unusual little reject indeed.”

Leonhard didn’t respond. He didn’t even dare to look to see the person speaking to him. The voice indicated it was a female, but something about it oozed an overwhelming darkness. Not something that unsettled him, but this being still felt powerful enough that he felt it was wise not to offend her. 

On instinct, he knelt and the being laughed. “Ah, you have sense. I like that.”

Suddenly, faster than he could blink, the room changed. Elaborate furniture, made of black and red gemstones, gradually appeared from thin air. It was elaborate, much like a throne room would be, and he wondered just why he couldn’t see it before. Or was it perhaps this being that had lifted the veil? 

He could sense it move and when he caught a glimpse of the being, all words were gone from his mouth. This creature…he couldn’t describe it. A woman, or at least looking like one, but nothing about her appearance seemed normal. If anything, there was a distinctly…arachnid sense about her…

She sank down on that throne of red and black, looking him over, and he never felt more like prey. Still, he did his best to maintain a calm exterior. Defiled as this woman seemed, surely she could not be worse than Rosaria. If anything, perhaps he could find himself a new mistress or otherwise bargain his way out. It was not like him to submit to his fate, even now.

“Perhaps you will be the one to recover my sword?”

The question, spoken out of nowhere, caught him off guard. A sword? What did a sword have to do with this? Still, he kept himself from asking. He felt she would explain soon enough.

“I offered a powerful warrior a blade of mine once. A powerful weapon, fed by the blood of betrayal. The unthankful ingrate cast it away in a forgotten Realm, too weak and soft-hearted to actually used it. I sent others loyal to me to retrieve it, yet so far, none have returned to me.”

She leaned in closer, supporting her head with her hand. “Perhaps you will do better? So what of it, mortal? Will you swear fealty to the Mistress of the Spiral Skein? To Mephala, she who presides over betrayal and secrets?”

Every word she said caused a deep, uncomfortable feeling to settle in his stomach. Everything about this being, this Mephala, emanated a deep sense of corruption, one he had become painfully used to by now. Perhaps that was why he didn’t feel as horrified as he should or the desire to run. Why not trade in one poison for the next? Especially if this realm had cleansed him of his scars, even if he never desired it. Besides, it didn’t seem like he had any choice.

Without a second thought, he knelt again. “Whatever my lady wants.”

The arachnid lady smirked. “Your devotion pleases me. Now go. Find my Ebony Blade. And if you find the one I asked to retrieve it, kill him and bring me his tongue as a reminder that those who serve me better not disappoint me.”

She snapped her fingers and suddenly, everything in the room disappeared again. Even she faded from view, then followed by the walls and stairs and floors. Soon after, the very Wheel-like world started to crumble and he found himself swallowed by a deep, all-enveloping blackness.

The former Finger wasn’t sure how much time had passed when this deafening, blinding darkness finally spat him out once more. Yet when it did, the Spiral Skein was long gone. He found himself on his back, looking up at a gray, dreary sky. A sky and a deep, chilling feeling of cold.

It was that searing sensation that had him scramble up. The air around him felt cold and clammy, lashing his skin from all sides. He could practically feel it gnaw at his bones, but any sense of discomfort flew from his mind when his eye fell upon a large structure. 

In front of him was a castle the likes of it he had never seen before. It reminded him somewhat of those in Carim, though those didn’t look nearly as grand or alien. Yet what he noticed most of all was a strange alien quality to it. A kind of darkness, one that he hadn’t even felt in the most sinister crevices of his own homeland.

Something inside him, perhaps a sliver of human fear he loathed to acknowledge, urged him to recoil. To turn away and flee. Yet in his current, naked state, he genuinely doubted he would even get far before the wind and cold would spell out his death. An uneasy feeling welled up inside of him. 

It seemed he had no choice but to enter, if just to survive.

Steeling himself and trying to keep whatever dignity his bare state afforded him, he moved forward. He crossed the bridge with even strides, ignoring the decaying bodies that occupied the stones. He pushed against the heavy wooden gates and with a lot of effort, they gave way, allowing him to slip inside and find refuge from the elements.

He let out a contented sigh as the warmth enveloped him, but his relief was only brief. Soon, his nostrils flared as a deep stench assaulted him from all sides. Blood and guts and the slightly sweet smell of rotten flesh… It was so intense it made him gag and instantly, the sense of danger took over.

What was this place? What on earth lived here? Cannibals? Darkwraiths? An as of yet unimagined horror? Rosaria had sent him to many a desolate place to retrieve tongues for her, but this place hinted at a depravity that was foreign even to her. Just what kind of mistress was Mephala that she had brought him here? Had he made a mistake swearing fealty to her, even if it was just to stay alive?

He couldn’t think about it for very long. Once again, he became aware of his naked, vulnerable state and he realized he couldn’t afford the luxury of turning back or questioning things. He needed clothes and a weapon first. Everything else would come after.

Having made up his mind, he cautiously proceeded, stepping through the hallway and descending down some stairs into a great hall. He was greeted with more corpses there. A first glance suggested that they were human, but as he looked closer, he saw that this wasn’t the case.

On the corpses that weren’t rotting yet, he spied strange features. Ashen skin, reddish eyes and long, protruding teeth. Something about these creatures seemed eerily supernatural, much like the monsters from Londor… As if in life, they fed off the essence of humanity… 

He took a deep sigh as he turned away, strengthening his resolve. At least the dead couldn’t hurt him. Or stop him from taking what he needed.

Thankfully, the castle provided amply in that regard. Soon, he found himself a set of beautiful red leather armor and two swords. The place was also rife with money, gems and silverware, items that he almost couldn’t believe were sitting here in plain sight. He took what he could; after all, something told him he might need it later.

As he took the necessary items to survive, he couldn’t help but wonder what exactly had happened. This was a strange place, with its ominous rooms with magical implements and a sinister cathedral with an altar spewing blood. It looked as if a raid had taken place on this castle, as if a violent force had descended on these…creatures when they least suspected it. Why, he wondered, and most importantly, who? Worse, was there a chance they would come back? 

Just as he wondered that, a sound caught his attention. He tensed, reaching for a weapon as he leaned in to listen. It came from the next room and he strongly doubted it was the wind.

If anything, it sounded like the shuffling of feet, as if a living being still lingered here. It seemed to walk around, pausing every now and then to tug at cloth and rummage through unknown possessions. Yet what truly set him on edge was the sound of cutting, of a sharp blade, slicing through tough and long dead flesh. 

Leonhard gripped his weapon tightly as he slowly inched into the room. The moment he did, he found himself staring at the back of a man. He was tall and gaunt, seemingly looking around the room, not yet having noticed him. He was dressed in simple garb and in one of his hands was a knife, caked with dried up blood. If anything, he reminded him of a beggar…one afflicted with madness.

The former Finger frowned. This man could well be a threat to him. After all, there was no honor among thieves and he had a weapon he was clearly using. He wondered if he should just simply kill him. After all, that was how he usually handled any potential enemies.

His mind made up, he approached the figure, but just as he was about to move in for the kill, the man turned. He practically jumped and so did the other person. His fingers tightened around his dagger, thrusting it in front of him in a feeble attempt to fend off a possible attack. It was so clumsy that it stunned the former Finger and he simply stood, staring in puzzlement and hesitation. 

It took a few minutes for the man to realize he was not attacking and he then stood at ease, letting out a sigh. “Blimey! Don’t scare me like that!”

He put away his weapon and on instinct, Leonhard did the same, deciding not to resort to violence if there wasn’t any need. “This castle is littered with corpses and death. I didn't want to take any risks.”

The man chuckled. “I can't blame you. “I'm Isaiah. Or Izzy, if you prefer. A lost traveler quite out of his depth. Are you scavenging for treasure as well?”

Deciding not to tell this stranger too much, Leonhard nodded. “Indeed I am. I'm Leonhard and I was sent here to find something of value.”

Izzy laughed. “Ah, don't we all? Well, I hope you'll find what you’re looking for then. I will be here for a while. Doný let me bother you. I'm just looking for the usual trinkets.”

Having said that, he turned away again, ignoring Leonhard entirely, and the former royal wondered whether to carry through on his former plan. After all, the man didn’t seem interested in a confrontation and had his back turned to him, seemingly at ease. It would be so very easy to run him through right now, to simply stab him in the back. Yet what was the point if the man likely had nothing of value to him? 

In the end, he decided against it. There was no point wasting his energy on a person who wouldn’t get in his way. Besides, if he could tolerate the rest of the wretched Fingers to live, then he sure could suffer one afflicted beggar. 

Casting one last look at the man, he walked away, ready to explore the rest of this strange castle. Yet as he walked away, his ears caught on to the sound of running. He froze, ready to whip around with his weapon drawn, but he had only barely turned as Izzy’s body collided with his and he painfully found his back hitting the floor.

His eyes widened as he saw the dagger flash mere inches from his face. Immediately, his own hands shot upwards, grabbing those holding the weapon. He fought with all his might to push back, meanwhile catching a glance of the beggar’s face, twisted with malice.

“You underhanded rat! I know why you’re here! You’re here for the Ebony Blade! Lady Mephala said there would be others! She told me to slit the wretches' throats and take all the glory! She’s telling me now, can’t you hear?”

Leonhard didn’t answer. Instead, he desperately tried to get the weapon away from him. He knew there was no point in begging for mercy. He certainly wouldn’t have given it himself. All he could do now was fight to survive, trying to keep the dagger at bay while looking for a way out.

“Die, you worm… Die, so Mephala can dine on your soul… And then I’ll send her the other one once he tells me…”

He could feel how the beggar exerted even more pressure and his mind became ever more frantic. He tried to move his legs, only to find them pinned under his assailant. The same was true for his weapons. The only thing he could use was his hands and as he could feel his muscles burn and the dagger inch closer, he realized it was now or never. 

Taking a deep breath, he decided to take his chance. In one fluid move, his right hand let go of the weapon and turned into a fist. Before the beggar even realized what was going on, he swung. His knuckles, clad with hard-boiled leather, caught him square in the temple and the crack of bone and a heavy thud rang in his ears. Blood spurted over the glove and he watched how his assailant sagged to the ground with a rattling groan. 

Leonhard wasted no time squirming out from under the unconscious man and getting back to his feet. He rapidly snatched the dagger, looking over the motionless body while holding it close. The last thing he wanted was for this man to spring up and attack him again. 

Izzy, however, remained motionless, the tiles below him coloring red with blood. From the looks of it, he wasn’t breathing either. The man was either dead or probably dying. That was good enough for him. Still, whatever satisfaction he felt was blotted out by the man’s words, standing out clearly in his mind.

Was it true what he said? That Mephala had sent him as well? That he too was charged with returning the Ebony Blade? That Mephala wanted him to kill any others who came to look?

No, he decided. That could not be the case. After all, what was the point of it? Why send out multiple people to retrieve a valuable item and risk them failing by killing each other in the process. That didn’t make the slightest lick of sense to him. Even rotten Rosaria was nowhere near that sadistic.

He again looked over the man’s disheveled appearance. How likely was it that a man such as him spoke the truth? No doubt he was simply mad, a stricken drifter that killed and stole just to survive. One couldn’t expect truths from a stricken mind. 

The former finger stepped away from the body, deciding to explore further. By now, he had searched most of the castle and there was no trace of an unusual black sword. All that was left was a corridor, one he had skipped earlier due to the unbearable stench that came from it. 

Now, there was no point to dawdle any longer. Having smartened up from his experience with Izzy, he approached the area with a weapon drawn. Trying to suck in whatever clean air he could, he went in and braced himself for whatever he would find beyond.

The corridor didn’t disappoint him. As soon as he entered what looked like a kitchen area, he found the stuff of nightmares. Aged, withered skeletons, clumps of meat that that definitely weren’t beef, pork or mutton and large barrels with taps containing a foul-smelling liquid that was most definitely blood. Every second of witnessing those rooms was an exercise in controlling his own stomach, as slowly a horrifying reality dawned on him. 

Whatever had once lived in this castle was in the habit of eating people. 

Keeping a stiff upper lip, he pressed on, walking towards a doorway that led to a short set of stairs. Instantly, rows of cells became visible and by now, he didn’t have to guess what they were for. He raised his weapon without thinking, wondering just what he would come across now. 

His eyes shifted left and right as he looked inside the cells. He felt some small measure of relief when he was met with empty cages and no sign of corpses or skeletons. Perhaps, he thought, someone heroic had actually stormed this place. Someone who had killed the monsters and freed anyone who was still trapped here. 

As he walked to the end of the room, he had half a mind to give up his search in this room. After all, there was nothing there, save for some clothes and remnants of food that might have been used to look after the basic needs of those once trapped here. It seemed unlikely that he would find the Ebony Blade here, but just as he was about to turn back, a sound drew his attention.

He jerked towards it and his eyes went wide. In the last cell on the left, there was a shape. A person… At first, he thought he was dead, as he lay in the straw motionless. Yet as he came close, he could see he was still breathing.

The man looked rather muscular, even in his rough spun tunic. His stature betrayed that of a knight, albeit one worn and marred by battle and perhaps this captivity. His black hair was long and unkempt and an unruly beard covered his jaws. As Leonhard approached, the man’s eyes suddenly snapped open, showing grey irises that shone with cold practicality. He scrambled up and with remarkable fastness, he raced towards the bars, making the former Finger step back on instinct.

“You! You’re not a vampire… Please, release me…”

There was a sense of urgency to his words, but the former royal remained unmoved. His experience with Izzy still lay fresh in his memory. What was to say that this man wouldn’t try to stab him in the back as well?

“Why should I?”

The man simply stared at him, his mouth moving but not words coming out. It almost made Leonhard laugh. Clearly, this prisoner couldn’t think of any good reason why he should be released himself. That alone told him all he needed to know. 

He was about to move along, when the man spoke again. “Are you looking for the Ebony Blade? Did Mephala sent you as well?”

Instantly, the former Finger stopped in his tracks and stared at him suspiciously. “…You know of Mephala?”

He nodded. “She sent me here too. To retrieve that wretched Ebony Blade of hers. I did, wanting to please her. Got it from that wretched Soul Cairn… I should have heeded that former Undead in Whiterun. The things I have seen in there… By the Gods… And then she caught me…”

Leonhard raised an eyebrow, more confused than anything. “Who?”

“Valerica of Clan Volkihar. A Vampire Lord. She's the only one left in this castle. Her kind feed on the blood of living creatures. She'll surely catch you too if you go in alone. But I know how to stop her.”

The man listened silently, not very impressed with what he heard. Vampires… So that was what the dead bodies littering the halls were. He guess that was good to know. Still, he saw no point in freeing up someone who was foolish enough to be caught by them.

“Very tempting, but I will take my chances. I have met worse horrors. Farewell.”

He tried to turn away again, only for a hand to reach through the bars and grab hold of him. “I know where it is. The Ebony Blade. I hid it in the dungeons of this place, before that wretched vampiress caught me and locked me in here. I can lead you to it if you free me. You can have it. I do not want the damned thing anymore, even if my life depended on wielding it…”

For a moment, Leonhard was tempted to simply cut off the man’s hand to free himself. Still, the words pouring out of his mouth stopped him. The man claimed to know where the Ebony Blade was. If he was speaking the truth, then it could save him a lot of time. 

Still, on the other side, who was to say that this man wasn’t planning to betray him as well? He knew he certainly would were he in his shoes. He had no desire to be caught off guard again. If he was going to accept his aid, there were going to be some strict conditions…

After a few moments of contemplation, he decided. Grabbing a nearby axe, he wedged it into the door and lifted it. It fell off its hinges almost immediately, allowing the prisoner clear passage. He immediately got out of the cell and walked towards him, smiling. 

“My thanks. Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Lautrec of Carim. A stranger in this land, but one grateful for your aid.” 

He wanted to say more, but the former Finger didn’t let him, even if he was surprised and interested by the fact he was apparently talking to a fellow countryman. Immediately, he drew his sword and pointed it at him. Lautrec immediately held still, looking at him incredulously. He simply gave him a cold look in return, stating his terms.

“Leonhard of Carim. Now this is how we will conduct ourselves. I'll let you have some armor, but you will not have any weapons. You'll walk in front of me at all times. And when I have possession of the Ebony Blade, you will make yourself scarce. Are we clear?”

Lautrec briefly stared at him, seemingly stunned by this sudden turn of events. For a moment, he seemed to wonder whether to run. A few seconds later, however, he simply nodded. 

“Exceedingly. Now, let's make haste and cease wasting time in this wretched castle.”

A few moments later, Leonhard was relieved to find himself outside the castle again, following his new companion as he led him around the back of the building. As they walked, he urged him to talk. If anything, because this man clearly had more knowledge of the castle and these “vampires” than he did. Secondly because he couldn’t help but wonder how another man from Carim made his way here and had entered the service of a pagan goddess as well. 

“I think she's the one that brought us here. The way I understand it, when we die, the Gods of this world sometimes draw souls from worlds like ours for their own purposes. To reward them, torment them, to entertain themselves. Mephala mostly seems drawn to sinners, those who forsook human decency in their life.”

His words made Leonhard chuckle. “So you were no saint in Carim?”

Lautrec gave him a wry grin over his shoulder. “I was a knight once. Then I lived through the Battle of the Six Gates and I no longer was. The Battle of Tears, they also called it. So many lives lost, all for a petty squabble between teenaged lords… My idealism of knighthood died that day and so did my belief in mankind. I pledged myself to the Goddess Fina and killed in her name until the Fire faded.”

The former royal furrowed his brows. “The Battle of the Six Gates was millenia ago… So was any worship of Fina…”

The knight shrugged. “I do not think time works here the way it did in our world. I have met others of my kind, some from ages past or in the future, some from other worlds. It doesn't matter to these Gods. It certainly does not for the one who brought us here. Her sphere is that of betrayal and secrets. She delights in toying with those who serve her, to make them suffer.”

The way he spoke, casual and with conviction, somehow unnerved Leonhard. “What could possibly be the point in that? Why would a Goddess betray those who serve her?”

“These Gods are not like ours, at least not Daedric Princes like Mephala. Human morality means nothing to them. Mephala betrays because that is literally what she is; betrayal personified. You may not believe me now, but heed my words. Serve her at your own peril. I learned this the hard way.”

The former Finger had no idea what to say in response and as such, he held his peace. He simply followed the knight as he guided him down the path, keeping a close eye on his back, leading him to an area that was clearly one a port. Suddenly, the man halted and just as Leonhard was about to snap at him, he spoke, leaning down to examine what looked like a mummified corpse. 

“Dead thralls… That means someone is already in the dungeons…”

Leonhard growled at that. “Who?”

Lautrec smirked. “More admirers of our dear Daedric Prince, possibly. It doesn't matter. Since you insisted I will carry no weaponry, I am relying on you for defense. Else you will be on your own finding that cursed Blade…” 

The other man’s lips drew back in a sneer, annoyed at his flippant behavior. “I'll keep you alive for as long as it suits me. Now, move. The sooner this is done with, the better.”

That was one thing the two of them definitely agreed about. Lautrec grabbed a nearby torch and led him inside the undercroft without protest, though everything about him seemed on edge. Clearly, enough happened between these walls that left a mark on him. He could already see his eyes going to an axe, embedded in a barrel at the entrance, but the former Finger forced him to move as they entered the bowels of the structure.

It was clear the knight knew his way around. He effortlessly walked the path and operated the mechanisms. Once again, he noted all the dead enemies and disabled traps and told him to keep his eyes open. Leonhard assured him he would with a roll of the eyes, keeping a steady pace and gladly pocketing any items his companion pointed out as useful. 

Eventually, the path led them to a door and when Lautrec opened it, they found themselves in a courtyard. The former finger found himself blinking at the sunlight, but his companion didn’t pause. He walked straight ahead, focused on something he couldn’t see.

“Here we are.”

Leonhard watched as he knelt at a tree, looking over his shoulder. “This is where I buried the blade. I’ll dig it up. Watch my back in the meantime.”

The former royal simply nodded and while the knight got to work, he looked over the courtyard. He might have been beautiful once upon a time, but there was little luster left to it. Most of it was in disarray, overgrown with weeds and mushrooms, The plants and flowers once planted had died long ago. What more, it reminded him of the ruined gardens of his own ancestral home and that thought was none too pleasant…

His home had been next to a river and the gardens had been built to incorporate it. A grand and visually striking choice, were it not that the river flooded regularly. One time, he had fallen in when playing with his brothers and the strong current had dragged him under and along. As he couldn’t swim, it surely would have been the end of him had a few fishermen not spotted him and pulled him out. Since then, he had feared the water and it was one thing from home, besides his siblings, that he never missed once he left.

It was odd, he realized. How this strange place, so far removed, made him think of home. Of a time where he felt comparatively happier, more human. It was distracting and he soon fought back the memories to focus on something more productive.

He was almost relieved when Lautrec called out to him. He turned around and was pleasantly surprised to see the man was indeed holding a blade. A long, sharp and curved monstrosity, reminding him very much of weapons from the East. He knew for certain; this had to be the famed Ebony Blade.

He grinned. “I am pleased to see you have held up your side of the bargain. Now give it to me and hurry along, so our business is fulfilled.”

“Give that blade to him and I will cut your throat as well as his.”

The sound of another voice nearly had Leonhard jump. He whipped around, weapon at the ready. Not even because he had assumed he and Lautrec were alone. He recognized that voice and he was none too happy to hear it. 

“Creighton?”

The former royal couldn’t believe his eyes. Standing a few feet away of them was his fellow Finger from Mirrah. Possibly the one he despised more than any of the others. At least Kirk and Heysel had been predictable in their genuine altruism. Creighton was possibly more insane than he was and as such, unpredictable and dangerous. From the looks of it, he wasn’t here for a friendly reunion either. 

Still, the Ringfinger refused to be cowed so easily. “Now why would I do that?”

The Wanderer from Mirrah gave him a disdainful look. “Because I will be the one to bring glory to Mephala and I will be damned if I let some spoiled former princeling get the better of me!”

Leonhard watched as the man drew an axe and he again found a muscle in his jaw throbbing. Lautrec had been right. Clearly, the two of them were not the only ones the Goddess of lies and deceit had sent to retrieve her sword. Still, of all the people she could have appealed to for her will to be done, why did she choose this cretin?

Casting him another icy stare, he yanked the large blade out of Lautrec’s hands and pointed it at the man. “You'll have to pry it off my dead body, you filthy mongrel.”

The Wanderer responded with a feral grin, raising his axe as he got close. Leonhard planted his feet, ready to defend himself, only to be caught off-guard by another shadow appearing in the yard. He heard a sudden gasp from Lautrec and from the corner of his eye, he suddenly found a curved sword looping around his throat and a tall figure behind him.

“Surrender the sword or he dies.”

Trying to keep an eye on Creighton at the same time, he looked at the new intruder, barely containing the fury in his voice. “Who are you? And why should I care if he dies?”

He noted no particular shock on Lautrec’s face as he said that and the man who held him chuckled. “You may call me Yurt. I have been hanging around here for a while, looking for the Ebony Blade. And once I have dealt with this fool who shirked on his duty, I will be glad to take it off your hands.”

“Not if I taste all of your flesh before that!”

All man in the courtyard looked up and Leonhard cursed under his breath as he saw Izzy slip out of the shadows, his grin twisted by the bloodied temple. “Aren't you supposed to be dead?”

The man snarled at him. “It takes a lot more than that to kill me. You, on the other hand…”

He inched closer and the former Finger found himself looking everywhere at once as he raised his new sword, wondering which of the incoming enemies he’d have to engage with first. He was a good fighter, but he had no access to the sorceries he usually relied on. No doubt Yurt would cut Lautrec’s throat any second now and after that, these three men would descend on him to get the Blade and then tear each other apart for it. All to please a Goddess who immensely enjoyed their suffering…

A wry smile came to his voice. He supposed he should indulge her then. Even if there was only a small chance he’d survive this encounter at all, he refused to go out like a coward, as miserably as he did in old Anor Londo…

Suddenly, there was a scream behind him. The sound was loud enough to make him jump and when he quickly glanced in its direction, his mouth fell open. A dagger stuck out of Yurt’s side and around it were Lautrec’s hands as he furiously drove the weapon deeper.

The sudden pain loosened Yurt’s grip and the knight responded by turning and elbowing him in the face. He then rapidly grabbed one of the swords off his belt and started to run, only to find himself jumped at by Izzy. Soon, the two men were fighting like dogs and Leonhard suddenly found himself rushed by Creighton.

He only barely escaped a wide swing from his axe, retaliating with one of his own. The Ebony Blade had a long reach and he could only smile smugly as Creighton couldn’t duck in time and received a nasty cut on his face. The man retaliated by several more vicious blows, ones he only barely managed to block with the long Blade. Still, seeing the blood on it electrified him and he swore he could hear an excited voice whisper in his ear.

“Yes… Yes. Kill them. Kill them all…”

For a brief second, he thought he could hear Mephala praise him. It would have made him feel good, were he not so desperate to stay alive. His former comrade seemed blind with rage, having no other thought in his head but to tear him apart. 

When Yurt, bleeding but still standing, then suddenly joined the fight, Leonhard found himself moving like the wind. He blocked and parried, ran and rolled and fought back blow for blow in an effort to outsmart two foes that were easily as quick and skilled as he were. The weapon was unlike his own crescent moon sword and didn’t handle nearly as fluently. Still, he fought, not caring as he sustained more injuries every second, determined to at least go out fighting. 

Still, after several moments, he and Lautrec found himself surrounded on all sides. He could tell his companion was tired, clearly affected by his long stay in his cell. Even with a proper sword, it was doubtful he’d last long and seeing his own clumsy wielding, he doubted even the encouragement of Mephala himself would see him live through this encounter. He readied himself, just praying that this time, he wouldn’t be reborn as a grub first.

Then, out of nowhere, there was a shriek. Not one of terror, as he might have expected. Instead, it was a sound of pure, inhuman rage, a wordless promise to search and destroy. A horrible sound, so loud that he could feel his ears ring. It causes the very stones of the castle to rattle and beside him, he could suddenly feel how Lautrec stood petrified, turning his face to the sound with his voice hardly above a whisper. 

“It's her. Valerica. She has come to feed…”

Leonhard was about to huff, until he followed the knight’s eyes and suddenly found himself nailed to the ground as well. Manifested from the shadows itself was a being that defied description. It reminded him somewhat of a bat, though far more humanoid and therefore far more hideous. It seemed to levitate above the ground with draconian wings and every inch of it betrayed an inhuman hunger. Here, it was the hunter and they were its chosen prey.

Their enemies noticed it too. The Ebony Blade quickly forgotten, they turned to the being, ready to attack. Yurt was the first to make a move, drawing both his blades and charging it. 

The monster responded immediately. It moved its arm and suddenly, the sinister knight was lifted off the ground and pulled towards the entity. It then casually flung him aside, slamming him against a nearby wall, before speeding to the rest of the group as a red, magic energy erupted all around them.

Leonhard let out a groan as he swore he could suddenly feel his life force drain, but any attempt to move failed as he saw the monster making a beeline for him. The moment his gray eyes met those black pools, devoid of any humanity, all courage finally left him, and one terrifying thought went through his mind.

He was going to die here, as food for an abomination worse than Rosaria…

He could only watch as the thing lunged at him, clawed arms outstretched, its mouth opening to reveal teeth more akin to a lion’s than a human. Instantly, he thought back to his worst nightmares, but he couldn’t even so much as try to run. All he could do was hold the Ebony Blade in front of him, in a feeble last attempt to ward it off.

Yet it was right there, as the creature was about to bite into him, that it suddenly pulled back. It screamed and suddenly Leonhard saw red hot flames searing into the creature’s skin, coming from a torch imbedded into it, courtesy of Lautrec. It squirmed and writhed in agony, clawing at the fire to put it out, and as the former Finger could only stare in shock and surprise, two simple words jolted him back to the present and into action.

“Leonhard, run!”

Without even thinking, the former royal obeyed. Faster than he thought himself capable of, he followed Lautrec as he hurried towards the way out. He ran after his companion, out the door through which they came. Without looking back, they raced through the cold dark halls, not looking back for fear of what, or who, might follow them. 

The gray, dull coast of Castle Volihar had never looked quite as beautiful as it did when they finally reached it again. The weather had changed in the time they had been underground. The previously gray sky was now black with dark clouds, with streaks of lightning slipping through and the previously calm water was now a treacherous landscape of waves. 

As he overlooked the Sea of Ghosts once more, Leonhard fell to his knees, gasping for breath. Finally, his fear and fatigue was getting the better of him. Only now did he feel safe enough to take a rest and as he tried to regain his composure, he turned to his companion who was cleaning his dagger and putting it back on his belt.

“You lied about not having a weapon…”

Lautrec gave him a sideways glance and shrugged. “I wasn't certain you could guarantee my safety. Or would. Let's be frank, you weren't going to stop him from cutting my throat once you had the Ebony Blade.”

For a moment, Leonhard thought of pressing the matter, but thought better of it. After all, the man was right. He certainly wasn’t attached to him and he was only looking out for himself. What’s more, were he in the knight’s situation, he definitely would have tried to smuggle a weapon of his own. 

“I suppose you're right.”

The knight huffed. “I have long since given up on illusions about the goodness of humankind.”

When Leonhard didn’t respond, he got up and gestured to the Ebony Blade. Immediately, the former Finger increased his grip on it, pointing it at him, ready to impale it on him if he had to. Something inside the sword seemed to urge him to do it too. To get rid of this potentially threat so he could have it all to himself.

Lautrec, however, scoffed. “I told you, I do not want that thing. You have your rotten prize now. Take it. Enjoy it until another tries to take it from you. After all I have seen, I just wish to leave this rock and never return. You should too, if you know what is best for you. Mephala’s little darlings might be on your heels as we speak…”

He chuckled a little at that last part, only to then turn around and walk away. The sorcerer could only watch him go with astonishment, not quite believing what he saw. Could any man, much less one as treacherous as this one, willingly walk away from such a prize?

“Well done, my follower. You have my artifact.”

He jerked as he suddenly heard the voice again inside his head. This time, he knew for sure. It was indeed Mephala, speaking to him personally. Her voice caressed his skull, wheedling and cajoling, deep and flattering like a cat’s purr.

“You have succeeded where lesser men failed. You have obtained an instrument of my power and influence. I am proud of you and it pleased me that you hold it. However, there is one last thing you must do.”

Despite himself, Leonhard listened as she spoke. “Lautrec failed me. He lost the stomach to serve me, unnerved by his experiences in the Soul Cairn. He buried my sword on purpose, so others wouldn't find it. He must be punished for his disregard of my will!” 

He could almost feel her own hands guiding him that moment, aiming the Ebony Blade at the other man’s back. “Kill him. Take his tongue and present it to me. Do this and you will have my favor.”

As if possessed by a foreign force, Leonhard found himself moving. Straining his tired legs, he started to follow Lautrec. 

Suddenly, however, the knight stopped. He turned over his shoulder and looked at him. It was enough to break the spell he was under and he realized at that very moment that he was caught. He stopped, temporarily uncertain of whether to simply attack or lie. 

Much to his surprise, Lautrec didn’t seem shocked. He looked him over, calmly. A chuckle left his mouth and when he spoke, he seemed resigned. 

“She asked you to kill me, did she not? For rejecting her in the end?”

The former Finger didn’t respond, still unsure of what to do, and he shrugged. “Well, go on then. Come try. You might win, but I'm tired of running from my sins. Of suffering for the sake of those who would never return the favor. The least I can do is die honorably…”

With those words, he reached for his sword, the one he had taken from Yurt, and waited. Again, there was a sense of peace about him, without even an inkling of feeling shock, fear or betrayal at his imminent death. He could practically feel the Daedric Prince writhe in irritation at that. After all, what was the fun in betrayal in it didn’t actually hurt the betrayed? Why lie if you could not fool another?

It was there, standing in front of a calm Lautrec, that Leonhard suddenly found himself uncertain. Not about his opponent; the man was weakened enough by his stay in a cell that he knew he could take him. Rather, he started to wonder about the being in whose very name he was tasked to commit this act. 

The knight was perhaps a monster, a parody of himself scarred by war and misery, but he had not lied to him. He had warned him about Mephala from the beginning and even now, standing here with the Blade at his throat, made no move to betray him. He was a pragmatic murderer, perhaps, but in no way worse than the being currently encouraging him to take his life. A being who had encouraged others to take his own life as well when it suited her…

Lautrec was right. Mephala had no affection for those who served her nor any favorites. They were all pawns in her twisted cosmic game and their lives, deaths and suffering meant nothing to her…

Without even realizing it, Leonhard’s fingers firmly clamped around the Blade’s handle. His teeth gnashed and he could feel a vein throbbing in his jaw. A deep, raw anger, one he hadn’t even felt when he first learned about the extent of his burns, took hold of his entire being and threatened to boil over at any second.

Here he was, alone and abandoned, once again at the whim of a Goddess who considered him her servant and nothing else. Again, his affection meant nothing. His devotion meant nothing. Once more, he was simply the rejected, aimless wanderer that was only good enough to fulfill tasks, but never to be esteemed. 

But no more. 

A growl left his mouth and suddenly, his vision turned red. His muscles tensed and so many thoughts ran through his mind that he could barely keep track of them. Still, he felt enough clarity to the right thing, for himself this time.

He turned to the waves crashing against the small port and with one powerful throw, cast the Ebony Blade into the churning water.

He could practically hear Mephala screech in his mind, cursing him and threatening with the worst kind of punishment. She called him a worm, a treacherous insect. She warned him that he would pay for his dissent. It mattered nothing to him. If anything, hearing a God scream at him was the sweetest sound he’d heard in a while. 

Yet even more amusing was Lautrec’s face. The knight looked at him as if he had just witnessed the single most absurd and stupefying thing in his life, the one thing he had never expected. Perhaps he really did. Perhaps he had never truly expected someone would defy a Goddess and spare his life. 

“You miserable cur! How dare you! How dare you reject her gifts?”

Leonhard cursed as a chorus of voices were heard behind him. One look over his shoulder and he saw the one thing he hoped wouldn’t happen. The others had gained on him, all because he had wasted his time here wondering whether to listen to a treacherous Goddess instead of heeding the knight’s advice to make himself scarce. 

Now, these men were here and ready to tear him to pieces before they would inevitably turn on each other. If only because Mephala commanded it. Because he just made it nigh impossible to retrieve the object of her “blessing”… 

He took a deep breath as he drew his weapon. He doubted he would make it out of here now. That he would ever see what lay beyond this forsaken rock in an unknown ocean. Still, best take responsibility for his foolishness. After all, if one planted the seed, they had to prune the mess. He raised his sword, snarling at the men to give it their best shot. 

Yet, just as the men threatened to descend on him, there was a crackle of magic. A strange being, made of lightning and stone, had suddenly appeared through a portal. It turned towards his assailants and then, without wasting a moment’s time, started to rain down elemental projectiles on them, forming a protective barrier between them and their swords. 

Leonhard stood, stunned and confused at what was happening, but not for long. Two rough hands suddenly grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back. He briefly looked up to see Lautrec, putting away what looked like a strange scroll before violently yanking him. On instinct he struggled, only to get a snarl in return.

“Stop wriggling and follow me.”

Leonhard’s eyes widened in surprise. “Lautrec, what are you doing?”

He got a grunt for an answer. “Getting us to safety, move!”

At those words, the former Finger was stunned, but still instantly followed. He hurried to keep up with the knight’s rapid pace, spurred on by his own desire to live. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered where to. After all, they were on an island. Where could they go but in circles?

His mouth practically fell open as they ran up to the coast and he spied a small, wooden boat. An uneasy feeling settled inside. He never liked the water and he couldn’t swim. Now he would have to traverse it during a storm, with waves that could smash their mode of transport in a second?

The knight, on the other hand, either didn’t think about such scenarios or plainly didn’t care. He practically shoved the smaller man into the boat, then pushed it off the shore and jumped in himself. The next thing he knew, Leonhard found a paddle pushed in his hand and orders barked in his face. 

“Take an oar and row!”

The former Finger didn’t argue. Following his companion’s example, he started to push off with all his might, desperate to get away from this miserable island. It didn’t take long for them to leave the shallow part of the water and for them to glide right into the giant maw of the storm.

The waves shook the little boat roughly and there were a few times where Leonhard was certain it would capsize and he’d sink beneath the icy water. Yet by some miracle, it held and even though his arms hurt from his frantic rowing, it glided across the gray expanse towards a dark strip of land in the distance. That unknown bit of solid surface became his goal and even as he was freezing from the downpour of water and the cold, he fought to control the boat and bring it towards its destination.

It took them far too long to steer it towards a mostly submerged jetty, but despite his lack of skill, he somehow managed. Once the boat reached shallow water, he leaped out. Lautrec followed suit and soon, the two of them stood shivering, as the icy sea crashed against the rocky coastline and rain poured down on them. 

His first instinct was looking around for shelter and it wasn’t long before he spied a structure north of their landing point. He quickly caught the knight’s attention and soon, the two of them rushed towards it. As they came close, they saw it was a fortress and from the looks of it, it was abandoned. Still, the former Finger figured it would have to do. 

It seemed some luck was with them, at least. The space inside was intact and warm. It contained several chests with dry clothes, money and weaponry. Yet more important, there was a dining hall, complete with unspoiled food and drink. 

It didn’t take long for the two fugitives to help themselves to a meal and for a while, the only sound filling those empty halls was the chewing and swallowing of the two new occupants. After their ordeal, this feast and brief moment of respite were a luxury of almost impossible value. Still, as the two of them ate in silence, Leonhard couldn’t help but think about the obvious.

“I wonder… If we stay here too long, won't Mephala’s chosen be able to find us?”

He didn’t realize he had asked it aloud until he saw Lautrec smirk, chewing a piece of beef before swallowing. “I highly doubt it. It's the Ebony Blade they wanted, not us, and you flung it into the sea. Even if they did want us, we took the only working boat. They could of course fix one in the port with all the broken driftwood or risk a swim when the storm passes. But either one will take time, so we will be safe here for now.”

His words sounded true enough and for a moment, he found himself suitably calmed by that knowledge. Yet after a while, many other questions took its place and he once again felt on edge. Leonhard caught himself staring at Lautrec and he stared back. The silence between them shifted from natural to awkward. 

Just who was the man whom had chosen to save his life in the end? This man, who was a self-admitted killer? Had this really been an act of altruism? Even if it was, how long would that kindness between them last? Even so, he was somewhat indebted to him and whatever remained of his honor demanded he’d clear it. 

“I suppose I should thank you for helping me get out of that wretched place…”

Lautrec looked up from his meal and shook his head. “No need. Let's not pretend to be more than we are. I am not a good person and neither are you. I’m a traitor, a deserter and a murderer. You…I do not even know what you are.”

Despite himself, Leonhard found himself chuckling at that painful truth. “Not any better than you, no. So what do you suggest?”

His companion opened a bottle of ale and took a sip. “I suggest we call a truce. After all, we helped out each other, so that would be fair. We'll divide up everything of value here and spend the night here. Then, tomorrow, we'll go our separate ways.”

The former Finger blinked at those words. For a man with such a dark past, they sounded remarkably reasonable. For some reason, he’d expected a bigger sacrifice on his part. Still, he wasn’t about to question a fortune changing for the better.

“That sounds reasonable. I've no desire to fight and if anything, I just want to get far away from here. Still, may I ask what you intend to do? Simply as one aimless refugee to another?”

The knight smiled. “I suppose I will should figure out what to do with myself. I can't go home anymore. People like us never return home. I have done much in the name of mistresses who never returned my affection. Perhaps I should find myself first. Confront my demons, so I can move on, make something of the time I have left here.”

For a moment, Leonhard swore he heard something in that voice as he spoke. For once, it didn’t sound hard and gruff. There was a sense of contentment in it, a sense of hope and vulnerability that he had not seen before of this man. It surprised him and at the same time, it also filled him with a strange sense of optimism. What was the last time he’d felt like that.

Lautrec seemed to notice it as well and chuckled. “And what about you? What demons weighed you down in Carim?”

“Same as yours, I suppose. Betrayal, hardship and rotten choices made as a consequence. Maybe it is time I face up to that as well. Perhaps I should find some place where I can put my knowledge of sorcery to good use and study that of this world. I always wanted to be a mage before, well… Well, the burns and scars are gone now, at least physically. I should use my gifts to deal with the mental ones as well. Maybe I can use that to build instead of destroy this time.”

He barely even realized just how exited he sounded at that prospect. The idea that perhaps things could be different. That he could live free from the pain of his scars and burns, without the burdens life had put on him back home. 

Lautrec seemed to notice it, but if he found it ridiculous, he made no comment. Instead, he snickered and pushed his chair back. He stretched lazily, then turned to him, a genuine smile on his face.

“Well, good luck with that. I am off now. I wish to get some sleep before I start my journey tomorrow. If either of us is already gone by morning, then I hereby wish you farewell and I hope you find what you're looking for.”

Leonhard nodded, repeating a similar sentiment by way of formality. His companion then walked away, to one of the sleeping quarters at the back of the fortress. Soon, he was alone in the dining hall, with no sound apart from his own chewing and the crackling of the nearby fire. 

He sighed, allowing himself to soak in its heat, alone with his thoughts. Truth be told, he did actually feel somewhat scared. Scared of finding there was life after death and that it meant being swept out into a world full of new Gods and horrors. Scared that it would get the better of him again. Scared that if what Lautrec said was true, he indeed couldn’t go home and this new place was all he had.

And yet…

Strange as it was, he also felt a strange sense of excitement. This place might also mean a chance to start anew. To let go of the bitterness and cynicism that had defined people like Lautrec and him. To make different choices.

He’d certainly done that so far, he realized. Where previously, he would have blindly followed a Goddess, he had now defied her. He’d learned and adapted to a hostile situation. He had chosen to take a chance on someone and it had paid off. It was only a start, of course, but every change had to begin somewhere. 

The former Finger chuckled at that. Perhaps his odds weren’t so bad at all…

He smiled wryly and mockingly proposed to a toast to the hearth. “To a better fortune and perhaps a kinder life this time…”

He raised the bottle, then brought it to his lips. The ale was pleasantly bitter on his tongue and he savored the flavor. Tomorrow would be a new day and he would embark on a new adventure the likes of which he’d never experienced. In fact, perhaps this would be the last peaceful moment he’d have in a while. Out there was a world in which he’d have to find his place and he figured it wouldn’t always be easy. Yet perhaps, if he made an effort and there were indeed also gracious Gods here, he might enjoy these small moments and simple pleasures again in the future.

That thought strengthened him. More than any fate or promise had in the past. He was no longer a prince or a Finger. He was simply Leonhard now, a wanderer on his way into the unknown. He was nobody’s man and as such, nobody could determine his story but himself. For the first time in his life, he was adrift and for the first time in his life, he was at peace with that.


	18. A Deal with Clavicus Vile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heysel makes a bad deal.

She had never been good enough.

That was the sentiment Heysel had struggled with since she were a little girl. The idea that she never matched up to everyone’s expectations of her. That she was a mistake somehow and that she’d need to spend her every waking moment correcting it and make herself worthwhile. 

Her life should have been one of privilege. Her father was a high-ranking pupil of the Crystal Sages and in charge of looking after Farron’s Undead Legion. It was a task he took great pride in and it was one he could only hope his daughter would take on after him. Her mother had similar dreams, except that she hoped her daughter would be beautiful as well, so she could one day perhaps court a member of the Legion and secure their position even further. 

Simple enough wishes, perhaps, but nonetheless ones she failed fulfill the very day she was born. She wasn’t a very beautiful baby and she didn’t much improve with age. At least, that was what her mother told her, as she never quite fitted the beautiful, dainty dresses she had somehow managed to scrounge for her offspring or moved in them with the grace required.

Her father tried to salvage this broken pedestal somewhat by teaching her sorcery, pacing her under the tutelage of the Crystal Sages. This quickly became her one redeemable feature, especially when it became clear she showed a talent for it. The intricacies of sorcery fascinated her and she even managed to make a friend. She and Kriemhild, one of their favorite pupils, had been close all throughout their childhood. For a while, life looked up, but her own heart betrayed her.

The crystal sorcery, while fascinating, never had the same attraction to her as it did to her friend. Instead, Heysel’s interest went out to the more obscure xanthous sorceries and those of the forgotten land of Oolacile. These sorceries, that supposedly allowed one to manipulate light and to shape the world around them in great and amazing ways. 

Eventually, she started to pull away from the teachings of the Crystal Sages and struck out on her own to research this lost magic. It led her on long explorations of the swamps of Farron Keep and the Road of Sacrifices. This pursuit of magic became her world, her reason to get up in the morning and gradually, she turned away from all those duties her family had foisted on her. 

She didn’t think he parents had truly expected her to leave after that violent fight they had. That they had hoped she would meant her ways. Yet what could she do, when her mother was disappointed with what she called a clumsy and awkward daughter and her father said she wouldn’t ever be suitable as a caretaker for the Undead Legion? By then, Kriemhild had already left long ago in search of her own adventures and it was time for her to do the same. 

Joining Rosaria’s Fingers had been a logical choice for her. She had felt sympathy for the broken Goddess, twisted and unwanted like herself. The entire covenant was one of forlorn and strange souls, something that made her feel at home for once. Yet most importantly, it offered her something she wanted more than anything else.

The promise of knowledge and beauty.

Even then, Heysel still missed her family. As much as she wanted to, their words had cut her deep and she still felt inadequate even after all she had accomplished on her own. It grieved her, yet also made her determined. Perhaps, here in Rosaria’s service, she could attain both things she so desperately lacked. Perhaps, one day, she could return to Farron Keep capable and stunning and finally make her family proud. 

Except, that was now unlikely to ever happen. Not while she lay here in Rosaria’s chambers, reduced to a wretched man-grub. Imprisoned in an abomination of flesh, unable to mourn her own fate as all that came from her mouth were horrid screeches. The beauty she so desperately sought for forever lost to her and her knowledge would likely be going soon.

Of course, she knew what caused it. She had been reborn one too many times, tried to change her appearance one too many times. Now, she paid a horrible price for her insecurity, bereft of her body and slowly her wits. There was no turning back now and all she could do was wait, either until death claimed her or someone somehow put her out of her misery.

When that last wish was granted, Heysel would have wept had she still been able to. A warrior came to visit Rosaria’s chambers, the same one whose embers she had unsuccessfully tried to pillage. Perhaps he understood her garbled cries were a plea for death or maybe he simply wanted her few possessions or vengeance. It didn’t matter to her. His blade was sharp and swift and soon, she was released from her tormented existence into the black nothing. 

As such, the Yellowfinger was surprised that, when she opened her eyes once more, the darkness was no more. Instead, she found herself in a beautiful meadow, stretching as far as she could see. The sky above her was a beautiful deep blue colors and white clouds soared overhead. 

She could only stare at the world around her in confusion. What was this place? This place with fields of white clovers, twisted foliage and what looked like large merchant utopias, sprawled out in the distance? It was marvelous, more beautiful than anything she had ever seen. It was nothing like home, were it not for the putrid, rotten stench that suddenly came crawling up her nose. 

She wheezed as she became aware of it and she surely would have vomited were her stomach not empty. The smell… It was like perfume and rotten carcasses at the same time. It was unbearable and she couldn’t possibly imagine what would cause such a foul odor. 

That unasked question had her look around and it was there she realized this place might not be as pretty as it initially appeared. She could see greenish-gray streaks staining the atmosphere and some buildings she saw in the distance seemed…off somehow. Almost as if they had been melted by dragon fire. Dragons… Were those even here?

It was now that she truly sensed how…alien this world felt, in ways that the decrepit kingdom of Lothric never even matched. This place was not dying like her home was, but it nonetheless felt…wrong. Like something coming from the mind of something that wasn’t entirely human…

Perhaps that was the case. She _was_ dead after all, wasn’t she? Was this the afterlife then? A place where less than good souls came to dwell? It would make sense, seeing how she wasn’t exactly the virtuous hero from the stories…

For the next hour or so, Heysel simply found herself wandering around. She took in every inch of this place, expecting at any moment for things to turn horrible. Yet the merchants were kind to her and many of the more fearsome creatures simply didn’t seem interested in her. It only confused her more. If this place, both beautiful and horrid, was not created for punishment, then why was she here?

“Ah, a poor, unfortunate soul, coming to make a deal?”

The sudden sound of an amused voice startled her. She let out a rather embarrassing squeal, then whipped around to see where it came from. The person must’ve been close enough to see it, as she was met with laughter.

“Oh, a jumpy one, aren’t you?”

The Yellowfinger frowned, especially when she found the source of the voice. In front of her, sitting on a tree stump, was a man. Or at least, the rough approximation of one. He was a rather small fellow, scrawny and short of stature, with impish features and what looks like horns on his head. She had never seen anything like it and wisely maintained her distance. 

“What…who are you?”

The man laughed. “Who am I? Who am _I_? What kind of question is that? If you came here, then you must certainly know who I am!”

She could practically hear the smugness and confidence drip off his voice, but no matter how much she jogged her own memory, Heysel only drew blanks. She was a learned person who knew much of Lothric’s history and even some of ages past, but she couldn’t for the life of her recall this man of whom he was supposed to be. She let out a sigh, deciding that not knowing the answer was better than answering wrongly. 

“Um, I really don’t. I…I don’t even know how I got here. What is this place? Am I dead? Is this the afterlife?”

“Oh… You really aren’t from around here… Well, no matter. I am Clavicus Vile. The Daedric Prince of Wishes.”

The Yellowfinger cocked her head. “Heysel. From Farron Keep. What is a Daedric Prince?”

“I suppose it is the equivalent of a god. I mean, there _are_ gods in your world, right?”

Heysel nodded and he continued. “Good. That makes me the God of Wishes. I make pacts with people, in exchange for something they want. You scratch my back, I scratch yours, if you will. And since you are here anyway, do you happen to have any wishes?”

The Yellowfinger stared at him, not really sure what to think. After all, she had always been reluctant to ask for help. Besides, she never felt like the people around it were going to give her any. As such, she had become a rather independent mind, one who wanted to pull herself up with her own bootstraps. Knowledge could be earned, combat prowess gained. She didn’t need any wishes for that.

Except, she then realized, there was one other thing. One thing she couldn’t change, no matter how hard she worked. Something that had led her down a dark road before…

“Well, I always wanted to be beautiful…”

That sentence came out her mouth before she even realized it, as a soft, wistful whisper. Still, Clavicus Vile had apparently heard her somehow. He arched a brow, looking her up and down.

“Beauty, you say? How interesting. You don’t look entirely hopeless, after all.”

If it was meant as a compliment, then it certainly didn’t help raise her self-esteem. She looked at him, biting back a growl and some choice words. If he were indeed a god like he claimed, it was best to maintain her composure and not get on his bad side. 

“Can you do that? Make me beautiful?”

The Daedric Prince rubbed his chin. “Well, I am not a face sculptor. Frankly, I wouldn’t recommend it either. Trust me, magic hurts more than the knife. But I can offer you an alternative, without the side effects…”

She gave him a strange look, only for a strange object to appear in his hands. A sparkling item, shimmering with gold, silver and many kinds of gems. She didn’t recognize it and while it was stunning, she was not sure what think of it. She looked at it cautiously, backing away slightly as he held it out to her. Her hesitance caused him to laugh. 

“Fear not. It blinds, surely, but it doesn’t bite. This handsome bejeweled veil is quite the piece, but it does more than enrich a person’s outfit. My magic is imbued in its golden and silver strings and if you wear it, all those who look upon you will be enchanted with the mere sight of you.”

Heysel could only listen as he spoke, but she had to admit that the longer Clavicus Vile talked, the more intrigued she was. She had always immensely feared the idea of someone cutting into her own face. Still, if people would find her beautiful if she simply wore something over her own face, perhaps that was the next best thing…

Curiously, she reached out, only for the Daedric Prince to pull back. “Ah-ah, nothing is ever for free, Heysel.”

Her face scrounged up for the briefest of moments. Of course… She should have known better. Nothing was for nothing, as her parents would say. Still, what could she do to attain such a priceless artifact?

“Of course… What would you have in exchange for this then, my Lord? I have little more than the clothes on my bag.”

The Daedric Prince chuckled merrily. “Oh, I don’t expect payment right away. There is something I’d want, but you don’t have it on you. It can be found, however, in the world beyond this one. The one you will go to when you leave from here.”

The things he said only baffled her even more. “So…what is this thing you want in exchange?”

He chuckled. “You will know it when you see it. And I doubt you will be sad to part with it.”

He held out his hand to her, smirking. “So, do we have a deal?”

Heysel looked him up and down and it was there that she felt hesitation. After all, it was suspicious enough that he never mentioned the thing he was looking for. She had learned to never take things at face value. She had made a terrible deal before and wasn’t eager to repeat it.

Still, she wondered, what about this new world he was speaking about? Was there something beyond the veil? Beyond death? Did it mean she was going to be returned to life? Was the world she lived in merely one of many, like a chain that went on infinitely and where she would live again and again? 

If she was indeed going somewhere new, full of strange new people, how well would they take to her, if she looked as hideous as she did? 

Again, she heard it. All the things her mother and father had said about her. About never being good enough, never smart enough, never beautiful enough. They stung even now, even here. She could no longer impress them now, but perhaps she could do so for others who hadn’t yet known her as she was now…

That thought was all it took. The Yellowfinger raised her hand. She put it in his and shook it.

“You have a deal.”

Clavicus Vile laughed and for some reason, she found herself shivering. “Excellent. Let’s get on with it then, shall we? Off to Nirn we go. It’s bound to be fun.”

If there was anything else Heysel wanted to say to that, she didn’t get the chance. Suddenly, the ground opened up below her and she shrieked as she found herself falling. Soon, the entire world around her started to unravel and she found herself swallowed by a white, endless void. 

The Yellowfinger found herself sitting up with an icy shriek and it took her at least several minutes to realize that she was no longer falling. She gasped, breathing in and out heavily, trying her best to look around despite feeling so disorientated she could barely tell up from down. Merely trying to focus caused her head to hurt and she quickly resorted to a fetal position, forcing herself to inhale and exhale as she waited for the spinning to stop.

As she did, however, she could feel how her hands were feebly clutching something. She cracked an eye opened and even though she got dizzy just watching, she caught a glimpse of jewelry. She frowned. 

The veil. It was still here. Still in her hands. That surprised her. However she got to meet Clavicus Vile, it clearly had not been a dream. Not anymore than this place at least. The discomfort she was feeling was certainly real enough and all she could wait for was for the worst of it to pass.

By the time it did, she was reduced to a shivering mess, barely even able to feel her fingers and feet due to a freezing cold. When she looked around, it wasn’t surprising. The place she was in, a cavern of sorts, was covered in snow and as cold as death. Somehow, she was without clothes as well. Realizing she’d surely freeze to death or suffer frostbite if she’d stay put, she forced her numb body to get up and explore.

The first thing she noticed was the large statue in the likeness of Clavicus Vile with, in front of it, several offerings. No doubt this place was a shrine to him, a place where his followers came to worship or people came to ask for a boon. Her mouth watered as she looked at the food offerings and she hoped that the deity wouldn’t mind if she took some just to tide her over. Yet her interest in the food was pushed to the background when her eyes fell onto a chest at the top of some stairs.

Biting back the pain in her freezing body, she scrambled up the steps and towards it. She thanked her lucky stars when she found the lid wasn’t frozen shut and practically uttered a prayer when she saw clothing inside. Soon, she was wrapped into some comfortable robes and fur boots and had a weapon and magical staff in her possession. 

It wasn’t the only gifts the container yielded. She also found some spellbooks, healing ones of all things, and a pouch filled with coin. The magic was easy enough to perform and when she went back down to the shrine and ate a few of the offered apples, she soon felt a lot better already.

Now, with her most immediate needs taken care of, Heysel set her mind to leaving this place. Thankfully, the way out proved easy to find. After fiddling with some old, rusty levers, she soon found herself exiting the snowy cave, only to look over a much larger, snowy landscape. 

The immense size of the unknown landscape overwhelmed her, but with nowhere to go, she felt she had no choice. She looked down at the bejeweled veil, then without thinking, she fastened it on her face. She looked for the outlines of a beaten path under the snow and then started to follow the road of the least resistance downwards, hoping to find some sign of civilization.

For the first hour or so of her walk, she was in no such luck. She did, however, find a small shack though it seemed to have been abandoned for a good while. Still, it was not without its merits, as it held some fresh food and what she recognized as ingredients that were likely ideal for potions. A journal, likely belonging to the previous owner, provided many useful notes and she decided to quickly use the alchemy lab to brew herself some for her journey.

For a moment she contemplated using the bed and perhaps stay the night, but eventually thought better of it. She was still out in the middle of nowhere and had no idea what awaited her come nightfall. So she decided to follow the road again with newfound supplies and actually find other people. 

After another hour or so, the Yellowfinger found herself in luck. She found herself coming across a small camp of soldiers. She approached them cautiously, but they proved to be very friendly towards her and willing to answer her questions. When she asked them if there was a town nearby, they told her to either follow the road to Riften, which was several hours away or head north and off the path to the hamlet of Ivarstead, which was about three quarters of an hour. 

Deciding she wanted to get to the inhabited world as fast as she could, Heysel swiftly chose the latter. She thanked the soldiers, then quickly headed north. She was glad to see that they had indeed spoken the truth when she came upon the tiny town and even happier when she found a tavern to rest her weary feet. 

The people of Ivarstead looked like they hadn’t seen a visitor in a very long time. Despite or perhaps because of this, they were kind to her and more than willing to serve her with a good meal and cheap wine when offering some coin. She settled down near the fire, reading one of the books she had found, planning to stay the night here and resume her journey through this unknown place tomorrow. 

“Please, we need help!”

The Yellowfinger jolted and looked up from the pages as the door to the inn swung open and two people more or less stumbled in. One of them was a woman, dressed in simple armor. The other one was a man and even from where she said she could see the blood pouring from his wounds, skin torn by what looked like claw and bite marks. The sight of her would’ve been enough to bring her food back up, had she not seen this too many times with the Undead Legion. 

The woman spoke up, pale in the face. “I found this pilgrim on the steps. I think the wolves got to him. Does…does someone know a doctor? Or healing magic? I’m not sure how much longer he’ll last."

Within moments, panic erupted all over the inn. Clearly, most of the people in this small town were farmers, not healers and not accustomed to dealing with injuries this severe. A chorus of panicked screams, shouting and gagging assaulted Heysel’s ears and it was enough to spring her into action.

She had learned some healing magic when she grew up, a necessary education for the child of the Legion’s caretaker. It were never studies she enjoyed, but ones that had proven very useful for herself and others. The magic here seemed different from the one at home, but her reading of the spellbook Healing Hands made it seem feasible. As such, she felt she should at least give it a try. The last thing she wanted was for this poor man to die here on the floor of a tavern.

Standing up from her bench, she strode over calmly and pushed the panicking people out of the way. She knelt beside the man, then put him on his side so he at least couldn’t choke on his own blood or vomit. He moaned in pain and she talked to him gently.

“Sh, it’s alright. I will do my best. Try not to speak. Save your strength.”

The man looked at her with fearful eyes, but nonetheless obeyed. She let out a deep sigh and focused, keenly aware of the strange magic that seemed in the air all around her. She quietly whispered the words of the spell like a mantra, willing healing energy into her hands, before mentally ordering it to flow into the man’s body instead.

Even she was surprised when a golden glow suddenly materialized into her palms, before transferring into the man when she demanded it to. A strong aura appeared all around him and she was happily surprised when his wounds started to close. Soon, his breaths sounded less labored and he managed to croak out a few words.

“Thank…you…”

The Yellowfinger smiled, reaching for a healing potion she had crafted in the shack. She gently took her patient’s head and tipped it into his mouth. She just hoped the instructions in the alchemist’s diary were correct and the brew would help rid the man of any internal bleeding. She remained by his side, demanding a pillow from the innkeeper, tending to him with her newfound healing spell while ignoring the crowd of concerned onlookers.

It felt like centuries had passed before there was some improvement. Slowly, color started to return to the man’s cheeks. He became a little more alert. He started to talk, responding to Heysel’s questions with clarity of mind. Clearly, her treatment was helping and after a while, she felt confident enough to ask some of the patrons to help move the man to a bed in the inn and clean up the mess. 

By the time she had made her way back to the benches, she was an absolute mess. She sank down on them, wiping the sweat from her forehead. Part of her wanted to desperately grasp for a mug of alcohol, only to grumble in annoyance when she realized she had emptied hers before the incident. Still, her slight annoyance didn’t last long as she instead focused on trying to calm down, the stress of the incident only now getting through to her, and taking satisfaction in the fact that she had just saved a life.

It was right that moment that the innkeeper suddenly approached her again. He smiled as he set a giant flagon of fine wine in front of her, as well as a tray filled with pie, dumplings and other delicious confectionaries. She stared at them with wide eyes, then hesitantly reached for her pouch, only for him to smile and shake his head. 

“On the house. You saved that man’s life. You deserve this.” 

His sincerity caught her off guard and she blushed. “O-oh… Thank you…”

The man chuckled. “I don’t think he would have made it were it not for you. That’s kind of a problem here. Ivarstead is a farmer’s hamlet that doesn’t get many visitors save for pilgrims who come to see the Greybeards. The road up the mountain is dangerous, however, and when something happens to them, we do not have the resources to care for them. This man was lucky you somehow happened here when you did.”

He tried to sound cheerful, but Heysel could easily hear the sorrow behind his words. Her own face fell as she listened to him in silence. She stared at the floor, wondering for a moment just how many people might have died on the side of the mountain or at this inn simply because there wasn’t anyone near who could treat them…

Still, she tried her best to put these thoughts aside and nodded. “I suppose it was fate then. Once again, thank you for the meal.”

The man chuckled. “You’re more than welcome. Let me know if there is anything else you need.”

With those words, he went back to the counter, leaving Heysel to sip her drink in silence. She munched on a sweetroll in silence, wondering about what had taken place over the last hour. She could sense how it slowly grew dark outside and she knew it was soon time to head to her own room and rest. Then next morning, she would figure out what to do next and where to go from this quaint little town, where people risked dying on the side of the mountain every day…

Perhaps it was that thought and the many harrowing dreams she had about injured people on a mountainside, that ultimately had her decide not to leave Ivarstead. That and actively exploring the town in daylight, realizing how beautiful the environment was. There was magic in the air, the kind she felt would greatly aid her in practicing and discovering sorcery. What more, she liked the quiet. 

Thus, after a few travels to Riften and some talks with local mill owner Temba Wide-Arm, a new little alchemist store and infirmary called Yellowfinger’s Remedies was becoming a reality. The town seemed extraordinarily happy with her, glad someone wanted to settle in their little hamlet rather than leaving. They were exceptionally willing to help her with everything she needed to make herself a home and it seemed that, very soon after, she was able to repay that kindness and then some. 

The Yellowfinger spent a good deal of her time roaming the wilds, finding alchemy ingredients and practicing her sorcery. Occasionally, she’d go as far as Riften or to the closer town of Helgen to buy new books and materials, increasing her skills in this new land. She would then bring those to her new home, to pour them into new creations which she would then sell to the townspeople and the pilgrims.

Whenever there were pilgrims coming to Ivarstead, Heysel would take two other villagers, Karita and Barknar, would make their way up and down the Throat of the World. Along the mountain path, they would look for pilgrims, to assure they were fed, hydrated and healthy. They would carry any injured down to Yellowfinger’s Remedy and treat them and within a short time, the mortality rate started to drastically go down. 

When she wasn’t making her rounds, she would arm herself and make it all the way up the mountain to the Greybeards themselves. They were a silent order and it was said that if they would so much as speak they could kill an ordinary person. Even so they treated her with kindness, clearly glad for her donations of potions and useful herbs and allowing her to read their vast collection of books in exchange. This too helped her perfect her craft and improve her product, establishing her little store as an important stop in the wilderness surrounding them. 

Indeed, it seemed her efforts paid off relatively quickly. More travelers started to stop by Ivarstead for supplies, now content to stay there with the presence of a small trading post. This in turn created more customers for the inn and more work for the villagers, all of which led to the small town no longer being as deserted. 

Indeed, as the months went by, quite some colorful characters started coming to Ivarstead, including some who seemed to have experienced the same odd thing as she did. As time passed, she met a man who called himself Bishop Havel and who claimed to be from the time of the Gods and on his way to join the Legion in Cyrodiil. Vengarl, a knight who claimed he was from old Forossa and desired to settle for a quiet life here in Ivarstead. A dual-wielding man named Yurt and his companion Mephistopheles, who were heading to Morrowind to join the Morag Tong. All of them were strange and unique in their own way and all of them spoke to her warmly about their own experiences of dying, encountering the Gods and being sent here.

All of these stories only convinced Heysel that her unusual predicament was very real and the continued kindness of those she met ensured her that the blessing Clavicus Vile had given her was real. She wore the bejeweled veil every day now, putting it on first thing in the morning. It made her feel safe and took away any anxiety she had about people judging her for her looks. 

All in all, she felt the God of Wishes granted her desires most marvelously. Here she was, in a nice home in a lovely location, beloved and respected by the people of her town. For once in her life, she had everything together and she cherished it every day. In fact, she was so happy that when she thought of the price the Daedric Prince would ask for her request, she felt confident she could pay it with ease.

Little did she know that she would soon be tested on that conviction. 

The day started out at any other. Heysel had risen early and fastened her mask, made herself a quick breakfast and opened Yellowfinger’s Remedies. A few customers were already waiting outside, eager for a healing potion to treat lesions or a concoction to increase stamina. She was happily helping each and every one of them when Barknar burst through the door, dragging something large after him.

“Heysel, we have a wounded! I found him near Geirmund’s Hall.”

Knowing that every second might count in such a situation, she nodded to her customers with a polite apology. Then, she rushed towards Barknar and helped support the man, carrying to one of the beds in the infirmary area. She put him in the largest bed she could find due to his size, than asked her friend to handle the payments with the customers for a few moments as she examined the patient.  
Once he was gone, she turned to the injured man, only for her to freeze mid-movement and her heart to cease beating.

She could feel all color drain from her face, her fingers beginning to tremble. All she could do was stare at the man, every inch of his tall, lean frame to the messy white-blond hair. She recognized him. There was no way she could not.

“Breccan?”

As soon as he heard the name, the man stirred. His eyes cracked up, searching the area before settling on her face. He regarded her for a few quiet moments, his clearly scrambled mind assessing the situation. After mere moments, however, his eyes went wide and he spoke between ragged coughs. 

“H-Heysel? You’re here?”

His question, underpinned with a hint of shock and relief, startled Heysel. Not because it confirmed her suspicions. If anything, she was more surprised that someone like him deigned to remember someone like her.

Breccan had been one of the many wanderers that flocked to the Abyss Watchers in order to serve with them. A bold but surly young man, the adventurous type that had nothing left to lose but seek glory by fighting the Abyss itself. Another one enticed by the legend of Knight Artorias, yet easily one of the Legion’s most formidable fighters.

His prowess hadn’t exactly gone unnoticed. Her father in particular had spoken favorably about him and her mother had half a mind to seek his troth to her daughter, if only she’d succeed in making Heysel less of an embarrassment. The Yellowfinger figured she wouldn’t have helped by saying she’d prefer Kriemhild or even that uppity Darkmoon Knightess who hunted Fingers over most men. Not that it mattered in the end, as the Abyss Watchers ended up making the decision for her by linking the Fire. 

Still, she decided the past didn’t matter much right now as she assessed his wounds. “Yes, it’s me, Breccan. Now lie still. I must tend to your injuries.”

He frowned at her. “Does that mean I am already dead, like all my brothers and sisters? You went missing long ago… We all assumed you were dead…” 

His breathing was even more labored now and for some reason, Heysel found her own matching it. Someone had actually…cared she had left? Worried about her being gone? For some reason, that thought stung her. Never had she assumed anyone in the Legion truly cared about a failure. Still, she tried to push those painful thoughts aside, feigning a smile. 

“No, you’re not dead. Not anymore, at least. I will explain later…”

She leaned in closer, ignoring his moans of pain. Her eyes settled on a deep slash on his chest and she pushed away the cut fabric to treat it. She started by pouring some disinfectant on it, before grabbing some clean bandages. As she did, she could suddenly feel his fingers moving up to her face and she saw how he made a face at her.

“Heysel…why are you wearing that silly mask?”

For the second time in mere minutes did the Yellowfinger find herself stunned once more. Her dark eyes stared back at him and without realizing it, a hand went up to her face. She barely felt the jewels and colored beads anymore nowadays, considering it her actual face rather than something she wore over it. Until now.

He was the very first person to ever comment on her mask since she got here. Not a single other person had ever made so much of a mention about it, even if it clearly wasn’t customary to wear. Not even those who had passed on to Skyrim from other worlds had so much as blinked at it. So why did Breccan, of all people, seem to notice? Did its spell not affect him because he had known her face before he got here? It was an uncomfortable thought and not one she wanted to dwell on.

“Hush now. It’s off no importance. You must save your strength.”

The Abyss Watcher shook his head. “No, it’s no use. All of us, we linked the Fire, then came back, then went mad and died again. I’m the only one left… The last blood of the Wolf. I’ll be gone soon too… I can feel it…”

Sensing an edge of terror in his voice, she tried her best to calm him. “Nonsense. I’m going to patch you up and you will be as good as new.”

Breccan let out a scoff and a grin. “No, it’s not the wounds that’ll get me. I held off that monstrous cat easily enough. I’ve been sick, ever since I got here. It’ll be the fever that will finish me off…”

He practically panted after speaking those few sentences and she brought her hand up to his forehead. She soon found him to be right. His forehead felt as hot as a rack of burning coals. Whatever was wracking his body was consuming him and unless she did something quickly, it would likely succeed. Still, she wasn’t going to let that happened without putting up a fight first. 

She grabbed some potions meant to reduce fevers and forced him to drink one. “We’ll see about that. I’m not just going to throw up my hands and let you die easily.”

The Abyss Watcher laughed at her tenacity, bitterly so. Yet he now lay back meekly, allowing her to work on him. She did so with additional fervor, deciding that of all the people she had saved in this land, one of them should at least be someone that she used to know. 

“Heysel?”

His voice sounded even worse than before now, but she nonetheless responded. “Yes?”

He smiled, wearily but sincerely. “It’s good to see you again. It’s good to see a familiar face, even if you are hiding it…”

In spite of herself, the Yellowfinger smiled as well. “Likewise, Breccan.”

With those words, she finished bandaging the last of his wounds and gave him a few drops of painkilling medication to help him sleep. Soon, he was snoring away in the bed and looking slightly less pained than before. Once she was certain he was no longer in critical condition, she walked back to the store to take over from Barknar again, not yet realizing that she would be in for the toughest two weeks of her life.

Breccan was not the first sick person she had dealt with by now. She had learned a lot in the many months since she’d come to live here and had become quite adept in treating the strange afflictions of this land. She had a talent for it too and she decided she wasn’t going to give up on her newest patients, no matter how much medication, magic, time and effort it took.

Yet it seemed the Abyss Watcher had not exaggerated when he claimed the fever would take him. No matter what she tried over the next few days, no matter what medication and healing magic she tried on him, he would not improve. He would stay in bed, limp and lifeless, sometimes sleeping and sometimes staring but too weak to even get up.

Every day, he got a little paler and his eyes started to lose their sheen. Even as the wounds on his body healed, it remained weak and he would sometimes cough so violently she was sure he’d hack up his lungs. He could barely hold down any food, save for the most tasteless and least nutritious of broths and at night, she could feel him tossing and turning with nightmares about primordial fire. 

She would do her best to console him when she could, to nurse him. Every time a method failed, she would try another one. She would try to cheer him up and keep him busy, trying her best to take his mind off his conviction that he was going to perish. Regardless of her indifference to the Legion, she refused to give up on him now. Her newfound pride in herself and her ability didn’t let her.

In the moments that he would feel strong enough to talk, they would talk about Farron Keep. About their memories of the place that was their home for so long. They would talk about the Crystal Sages and their contributions to the Legion. The training of the Acolytes. The Abyss Watchers themselves and their most daring battles. There was a small measure of happiness in those. At least, most of it.

She didn’t want to believe it when Breccan told her that her parents had worried about her when she left. That a few of his brothers and sisters had formed a search party to look for her in the Swamps. That when they had not found her, her parents had mourned her for a long time and were never the same afterwards. Nor did she like it when he would bring up the veil again and ask her to remove it.

Heysel had tried her best not to let it show, but her heart had bled when he said that. Had people at Farron Keep actually cared about her? Even her parents with their constant criticism? She had never thought of that, never realized it. All her life, she had felt like a burden everyone would be better off without and the idea that some people had actually missed her tore her up more than she wanted to let on.

She had cried in her own bed that night. The very idea that she might have been more loved and accepted than she thought was killing her. The thought that she may have left for nothing, suffered and died as a Finger was for nothing, shattered her world. She had lost everything and now she was here in this new place that finally gave her the beauty and respect she craved and she would likely lose the last link to home in Breccan as well… 

She would feel sick as he deteriorated a little every single day. To see him grow even too tired to smile or talk. To see him succumb to his nightmares as his sleeping hours grew ever longer. At this point, there was no use in treatment anymore. All she could do was sit at his bed and watch over him, so she could comfort him when the end came.

It was what she was doing now, as the two moons of Nirn shone brightly in the sky above and sleep eluded her. She stared at him through blurred, burning eyes, watching his emaciated frame. Every breath was heavy and she saw how his chest weakly moved up and down. She sighed. How much longer could she take seeing him waste away?

“Knock, knock, Heysel.”

The sudden sound of a voice nearly had the Yellowfinger leap off her chair. Instantly, she reached for a dagger on her belt and nervously looked around. Who would intrude into her infirmary and what for?

Suddenly, there was a blast of magic and a dark figure with horns materialized into the room. She was so fatigued that she raised her dagger on first instinct, taking several moments to realize whom it was. Once she did, she lowered her weapon and let out a deep sigh.

“Clavicus Vile. Forgive me my hostility, my Lord. I am having a trying time.”

The Daedric Prince laughed in response. “Oh, I can tell even with that mask. You’ve seen better days, Heysel. But remember, the sun will always shine again. Perhaps very soon for you.”

She wondered what he meant with that, but he continued. “But enough chitchat. I am here to collect the payment for that veil I gave you.”

By now, she had put her blade away and let out a deep groan. Of course he did. She had mostly forgotten about that by now. She knew she eventually would have to pay the piper, but so much had happened that she never had much time to think about what Clavicus Vile would require as payment. If anything, she also wished he’d picked a better moment to visit for such matters. 

“You come at a bad time, God of Wishes. I have a lot on my plate.”

The God of Wishes chuckled and there was a hint of malice in it. “Ah, your little Chasm Viewer or something like that. Well, I guess I am killing two birds with one stone then...”

Still anything but clear-minded, Heysel gave him a quizzical look. A frightened smirk appeared on the Daedric Prince’s face, broadening in a demonic manner. When he spoke, his voice sounded like how she imagined the Abyss would if it had a voice.

“I want him.”

Heysel’s felt an icy chill grip her body and she shook her head, not sure if she heard correctly. “What?”

Clavicus Vile gave her a disdainful look. “The Abyss Watcher’s soul. I want it as payment for my services.”

It took several moments for those words to truly get through to her. Yet once they did, she felt like her stomach was trying to escape her body. Her God of Wishes wanted Breccan’s soul in exchange for her veil. Knowing how souls were obtained in her old world when not given voluntarily, a horrifying feeling crept over her.

“What? You mean to kill him? Why? Why would you want such a thing?

The Daedric Prince gazed at her and the look he gave her made her feel like less than vermin. Then and there, it was clear that this being had never held an inch of respect for her from the moment he met her. That she had been naught but a tool in some kind of incomprehensible eldritch plan. When he laughed, it dripped with contempt.

“You think enchanting items just involves saying a few magic words and it’s done?” No, that fancy trinket that hides your face cost a soul. A life force I had to expend. It only makes sense that I want a replacement for my stock. And from what I can sense, your old acquaintance has a very powerful soul indeed. I am dying to see what Blood of the Wolf and Flame truly means…”

“Y-you can’t do this. Breccan… He didn’t agree to this! It’s not…”

He grimaced. “Oh, but I can. Because you agreed to it. You were chomping at the bit to make a deal for some jewelry to cover up your mug and never once did you bother to ask what I might ask in return. I must say…there are children who took more to be tricked than you.”

Every word out of his mouth was laced with gloating and by now, Heysel could feel tears brimming behind her eyes. The reality of how foolish she had been hit her like a ton of bricks. Here she was, again having risked everything for knowledge and beauty, and again she had made a terrible botch of things… Maybe the other Fingers had been right. Maybe she was just a stupid, naïve little girl…

Even so, she found her fist clenching and underneath the grief, there was rage. A sense of angry determination, fueled by a lifetime of feeling like a failure. She turned to the Daedric Prince, her voice shaking but resolved.

“I will not let you kill him. I made this deal, so it should be on me. Let him live!”

For all her bravado, she was met with a mocking laugh. “Live? Heysel, my girl, he’s already on death’s door. That mask of yours? It’s tied to him, the goods to their expense. As long as it’s yours, he will not ever recover again.”

By now, fully realizing the extent of her rotten deal, Heysel was swallowing not to cry. “Please, don’t do this…”

Again, she got nothing but contempt. “Oh, how hesitant can mortals suddenly be when they actually know those whose life they take… You cared nothing for him, Heysel. Back home, you only felt hurt when looking upon anyone associated with the Legion. Besides, do you really think you were more than a passing name to him?” 

He leaned in closer and smirked. “Is he really worth giving up the love and respect you’ve gained in, the security you finally have in yourself? He is dying anyway and in his dreams, he prays for the fever to finally finish him so he can join his fallen comrades in death. If anything, you’d be doing him a kindness…”

She didn’t respond, practically grinding her teeth as she looked for the words to oppose him. 

The Daedric Prince reached for a nearby potion. He muttered something over it in a strange, dark tongue. She could see its consistency change and she swore the substance was turning foul, smelling of blood and wine. He then handed it to her.

“Give this to him. It’ll have him die a gentle death and no one will suspect you of poisoning him with medicine. He is asleep and won’t fight back. Go on, do it. Give him what he wants. Then you can keep what you want and I get what I want. We all win… And your debt is paid and you will never have to deal with me again.”

By now, his presence was nowhere near the jovial creature she had once known. It was now oppressive, dark, threatening… An overwhelming force that had trapped her with a simple lure and now, she were to hold up her part of the bargain. Kill Breccan or face the unknown but dire consequences…

She looked over at the sick Abyss Watcher, her whole body trembling. Sure, she had no true attachment to him or anyone else in the Legion. Even if they had cared for her, they had torn her self-esteem to shreds and made her miserable. Still, as indifferent as she had become to them, she had never wished ill upon them either.

Her feet felt like stone as she took a step closer. This wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. Why did he have to die? Why should he suffer for something he was not responsible for? If only she had known that this was where it would all lead… That she would once again make a deal with too high a cost… All to keep her illusion of beauty and the respect she always craved.

Respect…

That word pulsed through her mind. She had respect now, ever since she came to Ivarstead. She had gained it the moment she rushed over to that injured man and saved his life when no one else could. She doubted whether it was thanks to the mask that people were grateful to her for doing that… 

No, her true fear was her face. A face her parents could never stop complaining about. A face that had defined her for most of her life. A lack of beauty that seemed to inhabit the path others chose for her. Others no longer there… A face that had no influence on the position she had found herself in.

Realization and resentment rolled into one as all these thoughts came to her. All her life, she had wanted to be smart and beautiful, all because a few people claimed she never was. All her life she had listened as well and it had affected her to the point she was willing to deal with devils to attain that approval. 

It was not worth it…and had never been. 

Suddenly, the grief and the bitterness were gone. They melted like snow under a hot spring sun, one that burned with the rage of a thousand infernos. There was no fear now. Only fury at injustice. An injustice to herself and to Breccan, which she would now address, consequences be damned.

The vial dropped from her hands slowly and she could feel Clavicus Vile flinch. She then turned to him, her eyes meeting his pools of black. The tremble in her voice was gone and it practically turned to a growl as she made her intentions known. 

“Clavicus Vile… The deal is off!”

With those words, before the Daedric Prince could even respond, she reached up to the veil and tore it off. She heard him scream as she did, only for her to smash it into the ground, so hard that several of the gems and beads came loose from the structure. A lightning spell formed in her hand and ignoring a shocked curse from the God of Wishes, she aimed it at the veil and shattered it into white hot particles. 

She swore she could hear the shriek of a freed, disembodied soul as she did, but she wasn’t sure. If anything, she was more concerned with the change of atmosphere in the room. It felt lighter somehow, almost as if a curse was lifted, right until the moment the Daedric Prince fully realized what had happened. 

By now, Clavicus Vile was pale and shaking with wrath, unleashing a volume of curses in the Daedric tongue. Clearly, this was not what he had hoped for and his displeasure was palpable and destructive. She stood, taking it calmly, expecting to be obliterated at any moment for her dissent.

Yet the blow never came. He simply stood, raging impotently, squirming in what seemed like immense pain. It made her wonder. Had it been only a soul from which this veil was made? Or had the God of Wishes put a bit of his own essence in it as well, something she had now destroyed?

Heysel didn’t know for certain, but she decided it didn’t matter. She was done with this, all of it. Her deal was void now and she wanted nothing more to do with this wretched creature. She took a step towards him and felt immense glee when he flinched. 

“Get out. Get out of my home and my life and never darken my doorway again!”

A demonic snarl was her response. For a moment, it seemed the Daedric Prince seemed to advance on her, only to practically limp when he did. He growled, in anger and perhaps resentful admiration. Though it could well be so only imagined that last one.

“You cocky little mortal. Guess you were not as sad and desperate as I hoped. You’re just lucky you didn’t bore me. I would’ve smitten you were you stood if you were…”

It was clearly meant as a threat, but the Yellowfinger couldn’t find it in her to be afraid anymore. She stared him down coolly, like an unwanted guest who was taking his sweet time making himself scarce. She could tell that this lack of fear both intrigued him and annoyed him, leading him to throw one last insult her way.

“Live well, Heysel. If you can with that face of yours…”

Then, suddenly, there was the burst of magic again and as abruptly as he had appeared, he was gone again. She didn’t register it right away, simply staring at the empty space for a while. It was only after several seconds that the reality of the situation got through to her and she fell to her knees shaking.

Had she really just stood up to a deity and won, saving another person’s life? Her? This girl who never did what she was supposed to do? Who would once have sacrificed anything for a way to feel beautiful and wanted? Not only that, she had actually faced down a being that could have obliterated her. Yet she had not felt even an inkling of terror, giving up her veil without so much as a thought…

All these things seemed incredible to her, had she not been tired beyond belief. The need for sleep that had eluded her earlier suddenly came upon her with a vengeance and she swore she could sink to the ground and pass out at any moment. All that happened these last two weeks up to now had been too much and her mind and body craved some semblance of rest.

Gathering all of her strength, she got up and turned to look at Breccan one last time. She was relieved to see he was still alive and she decided that would have to do as she stumbled to one of the other beds in the infirmary. She threw herself on the nearest one and as soon as she touched the mattress, she was gone. She would think about everything tomorrow. Right now, all she could do was sleep…

“Heysel? Heysel! Are you alright? Heysel, wake up!”

The Yellowfinger let out an annoyed groan as she felt someone tugging at her. She opened her eyes to turn to the source of the noise, only to frown. Standing over her was Breccan, glancing at her like a parent who just saw its child take a fall and scape its knee. Which, frankly, also summed up the feeling she had seeing him like this. He shouldn’t be here waking her up.

“B-Breccan? What are you doing? You should be in bed…”

He smiled. “I know, but…I’m feeling better today. A lot better. I don’t know why. I think…I think the fever might be going away…”

It was that last sentence that jolted Heysel’s mind right back to the world of the living. She sat up, looking at him and then at the room before noticing the charred floor where lightning had struck, her heart hammering in her chest. The events of the night before, feeling like a vague nightmare before, came right back to the forefront of her mind. 

It had really happened… She had truly gone back on her bargain with Clavicus Vile and destroyed the veil. She had indeed saved the Abyss Watcher’s life in the process.

A feeling of mad unrest came over her, but forced herself to calm down. She forced a deep breath of air into her lungs through her nose, then turned to Breccan. After all, as her patient, he was still her first responsibility.

“Well, that is good then… I should get you something to eat. You lost a lot of weight and you need to regain your strength to make a full recovery…”

Unlike the weeks before, the Abyss Watcher no longer seemed pained at the prospect of eating. He was excited and happily obeyed her order to get back into bed at the promise of it. She felt almost sad for him when she checked the cupboard and found she had little more to offer than some cold chicken dumplings and a jug of milk. He, however, hardly seemed to mind and she watched in abject fascination how he wolfed down the offered meal without the slightest sign of nausea. 

As she looked him over, she gradually realized that he was right. His skin no longer looked like it was glowing and a healthy pink tinge had returned to it. His eyes stood bright and the fact he could properly eat again all pointed to signs of recovery. Again, it was confirmed that this was not a dream, especially when he was done consuming the food and smiling at her happily.

“Ah, you’ve finally taken off the mask.”

The veil…

It was only now that Heysel truly realized that she was no longer wearing it and never could again if she wanted to. It was gone now, destroyed in one fell swoop rebelling against a trickster god. She felt naked now with her face exposed to the world, yet seeing Breccan healthy again, she felt that showing her face was a price she would happily pay, whatever the flaws she found in it. 

For a moment, she thought about telling him what had happened. That the two of them had been victims of a scheme that nearly cost them their life and that his wellbeing was the reason she had done the right thing. It was very tempting, but in the end, she thought better of it. She doubted he would believe her anyway.

She chuckled. “Yes, I figured I no longer needed it.”

His eyes lit up at that, muttering a “good” under his breath, only to seemingly look around for more food. It was at that very moment she heard a knock on the door and knowing it was likely Karita and Barknar with breakfast before they’d start their climb up the Throat of the World, she quickly got up and opened it. 

Her two friends happily waltzed in with the customary morning greetings, with Barknar laughing loudly upon seeing Breccan sitting up and alert in his bed. “Ah, I see your patient is making progress at last! I’m sure he’d appreciate a good breakfast after such a long time!”

Heysel nodded in ascent, not needing to say another word before the Nord man went off to feed him some bread with slices of meat. She could only watch with a smile as the two men talked, with her friend eager to tell him about all the work she had done to save him. Two weeks ago, she had never expected to actually meet a ghost from her past again and until yesterday, she never thought she’d ever see him healthy again and ready to live again, away from the burden of a Lord of Cinder…

It was only that moment that she caught on to Karita. The pilgrim simply stood in the middle of the room, mountaineering supplies still clutched to her chest, simply staring at her in what looked like surprise and bemusement. It took the Yellowfinger by surprise and several moments to understand why. 

It was the lack of the veil. Even if no one in Ivarstead had been able to truly see it, it had influenced their perception of her. This was the first time any of them had not been under its spell and the first time her friend saw her for what she truly was.

It was a scary thought, but she nonetheless smiled innocently. “Is something wrong, Karita?”

The woman seemed to snap out of her hypnosis, only to shake her head with a slight flush. “Nothing… It’s just…I’ve never really had a good look at your face before. It’s nice. You’ve got really beautiful eyes and strong cheekbones.”

She then quickly proceeded to walk past her, putting the gear on the table and quickly throwing some plates together for breakfast. She seemed absolutely embarrassed of the situation, avoiding further eye contact. Yet all Heysel wanted to was laugh. 

She knew she was no great beauty, but by now, she also knew her friends well enough to catch on when they were jesting or sincere. Clearly, not the entire world felt as disappointed about her looks as her parents had done and unlike what she had always feared, others also saw the virtues even if she mostly only saw the flaws. 

Perhaps, she figured, that was good enough…

This little town of Ivarstead was her home now. Her spot that she had carved out for herself on a new plane of existence. What had brought her there was a desire for attractiveness, but what had allowed her to stay was the same kindness and sense of comradery that had made her ill-suited as a Finger but great as a town healer. 

It may have been Clavicus Vile’s veil that had made people polite to her when they first met her, but it had been all her own skills that made them accept her. She was no barely tolerated failure here. She was considered a friend and a savior, trusted and respected, on merits all her own. A good heart meant more than the finest face and these people would always care for her for that alone, whether they considered her ugly or beautiful.

Heysel smiled at that idea, looking at her reflection in the helmet Karita had put on the table. She might not look the way she wanted, but to people like Breccan or Barknar or her pilgrim friend, she was worth loving all the same. She was sure she could live with that.


	19. Lost In Un-Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gundyr's fate is once again decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mnemoli is once again once of those obscure Goddesses from TES lore with very little information about her. She is one of the Magna Ge and sometimes referred to as a single entity and other times as plural. Needless to say, I just decided to get creative with the idea.

He was the Champion that would link the Fire.

Gundyr knew he had no other purpose. It was what he had been trained to do. All his life, he had known that the First Flame would fade once more and all his life, he knew he would be the one to save the world for another cycle.

That was what he was brought up to do in his home in a village in what was once Drangleic. From the day he was born, his village raised him to be a warrior. To be strong, to resist hollowing. To be great of mind and spirit. 

It had been a hard destiny to fulfill. One of cruel teachers, deprived of friends and the ability to be a child. He’d been using a sword since the day he could walk and the moment he was weaned, he’d never seen his parents again, to be put in the hands of the finest knights to prepare him for a glorious future. All his life, he’d been kept apart and trained to harden himself, to be strong, to stand above everyone else so he could save them and never be swayed by emotional attachment.

It had been an unbearably hard life, but even when he was young, Gunyr had never complained. He knew his fate from a young age. It was his destiny to save the world, the only purpose he’d been born for. To, when he came of age and the fire faded, leave the place he was born and sacrifice himself in the Kiln. To create a magnificent pyre to usher in another age of Flame.

Then why, he wondered, had there been no fire? Where was the Fire Keeper? Why was there no bell tolling?

He had come upon an empty, abandoned shine, forsaken by all. All that had been left were the dead and they had no answers. He lingered there, waiting and watching, unsure of what to do next and ashamed to go back. It was where he still was when another traveler came upon him, Unkindled Ash, clearly on his own quest to link the Fire.

The sheer nerve of that man… Even now, it angered him. What good would unkindled ash do for a dying world? He couldn’t just let this…this failure who couldn’t even link the fire in the past go ahead and try again. He would damn everything and as such, he had made a choice. He had drawn his halberd and charged.

Yet where was he now? 

In fact, he wondered, where was anything? Here he was, seeing nothing at all. Only an endless void of black with nothing in it. It had him on edge. Had the man used some kind of blinding spell? Was he to expect a sword in the back at any moment?

Hands clutched around his weapon, he readied himself for a renewed battle. Even if he couldn’t see, it didn’t matter. He was going to fight, battle for his life until the last breath. He was Champion Gundyr and he would not go down easily, especially not to a mere Unkindled.

Yet the Unkindled didn’t approach. There was no sound or weaponry. No sudden burst of pain. No voices or sights or even smells. Instead, he remained alone, stumbling blindly, staring down a vast and soundless darkness.

As the seconds dragged on, stretching into minutes and perhaps even hours, Gundyr could feel an twinge of worry. Why was nothing happening? Where was his opponent? If this was a spell, why hadn’t it worn off yet? What was happening to him? 

His uncertainty made him move, stumbling through the endless void in search of an answer. For something that would tell him what to do next. He needed to know. He needed to fulfill his destiny.

Then, somewhere in the endless distance, he saw something. A pin prick of light, faint and quivering. A beacon of hope, in a crushing sea of doubt and blindness. He reached out with his free hand, his feet moving by themselves, like a man dying of thirst using his last strength to drag himself to a well.

It seemed the light responded to him as well. It seemed drawn to him, almost pulsing in anticipation, beckoning him to come. As he approached, he could see how it slowly increased in size, like a hole being torn into a curtain. Its bright rays kissed the shining metal of his armor, tugging at him and pulling him in, allowing him to step out of the dark and into an all-enveloping brightness.

Once his eyes had adjusted, a sense of confusion washed over him. He looked around, briefly shaking his head, not certain whether he was dreaming or awake. He had expected to find the shrine once more, but there was no trace of the place he had come to rest. 

Instead, he found himself at the center of a large arena. It reminded him of the coliseums of old, like they were built long ago in the forgotten land of Oolacile. He looked around for a door, but all that stared back at him where its white walls, looking brand new and withered all at once. The air was dry and dusty, burning his lungs inside his armor. Yet above him shone a sun that gave off no warmth, a blinding orb in an otherwise empty and white sky. 

Immediately, his fingers tightened around the handle of his halberd as he looked around, expecting enemies to close in on all sides. After all, were these structures not built for blood sport, where combatants would fight to the death for the entertainment of others? There was no crowd from what he could see, but how long would that last?

That nervous thought brought him back to a frightening question. How did he get here? How could he get from the Firelink Shrine to this strange place? How he could he end up here, without using a bonfire to travel? Just where on earth was he?

“What brings you here, transcendent soul, lost in the space between worlds?”

The voice that drifted into his ears caused him to tense on the spot. For a moment, he thought it was an enemy, but as the words seeped into his mind, he abandoned the thought. After all, nothing about it sounded human. It sounded like a multitude of voices, alien in tone, the voice of a child, an adult and an old person all in one. One and many, coming at him from all sides as shadows were cast over him.

Shaking himself from his daze, he dared to look and what he saw made his jaw draw open behind his helmet. Appearing from nothing, four women had surrounded him on all sides. They were tall and gaunt, with skin so white it was almost translucent. A blue star seemed etched into their foreheads, but it was the only constant facial feature he could make it.

All around him, he could see the face of each one shift. One was a child, then the other. Then their face changed to that of a maiden. Then to that of a mother and finally a crone. These faces glided across their heads, like shows changing shape with the sun and everything about it unsettled him deeply.

Still, a deep-sated instinct to preserve himself made him speak. “I do not know how I got here. There was darkness, then light and then I was...wherever this is.”

For a moment, a smile flashed across all their faces. “Ah, that is how most meet us who do not belong to the Psijic Order. Still, you are a special case indeed.”

Something about that almost casual response only unnerved him even more. He’d seen many strange things, gruesome things, but for some reason these things frightened him even more than the treacherous Pus of Man. The way these…creatures were watching him… They reminded him of vultures, preying upon the dying. 

“Who are you?”

As one, the women stared at him. “We are Mnemoli, the Blue Star, the Magna-Ge of Un-Time. It is us who tend to those things outside the cycle of time and reality bound by time.”

Each word was spoken with careful deliberate in a voice both young and old, one and many. A message he felt was as old as the beginning and perhaps even the end. Even so, it confused him. 

He himself came from a world where time was convoluted, yet it was still a world where time existed and its whims governed everything. How on earth could something exist out of time, free from its ravages and effects? What more, what did that all have to do with him?

“Why am I here?”

Their eyes lit up like stars. “You are here because you slipped through the cracks within the boundaries of your own world. Your existence defies time and so, the both of you are left to us.”

That was there that Gundyr found himself thrown for another loop. “Both of whom? I see no other…”

Four pairs of eyes looked straight at him. “Your existence defies time itself. A rift was created as you set out on your quest and the remains of that rift ended up here. Not twisted enough to terminate, yet something that must be rectified. There are two of you and only one may pass into the kalpa.”

Again, Gundyr found himself rocked to his very core. He had no idea what a kalpa was or how it applied to him for that matter. What more, how could there be two of him?

He tried to look them in the eyes, fighting to keep his calm. “What is to become of me?”

Four shifting faces smiled all at the same time. “A decision must be made. About you and the other. You must test your mettle against your other self. Prevail and you may leave this arena, to live out your life on the plane of mortals.”

Again, their faces changed, cold as stone. “Fail and it is the other who passes on.”

By now, every inch of Gundyr’s body was growing cold. Their ominous words buried their way deep inside his mind, only adding to the deep sense of uncertainty and confusion that pervaded his thoughts. He’d never been worried before facing any trial, but now…

This arena… Was this place to potentially become his grave? All his life, he’d fought and trained. He’d been born and raised to fulfill a destiny, to once again light the Flame. Now, he might not even be able to do that if he perished here? Was that what was happening? Was he to fight for his life?

He opened his mouth to speak, but faster than he could blink, the Mnemoli had disappeared. There was only a second of silence, before a new sound took over. It started softly, like a light tremor, only to swiftly swell into a tidal wave of sound. Cheering, he realized, overwhelming and deafening with a thousand voices somehow shaped into one. 

He looked all around him and saw he was no longer alone. The coliseum was filled to the brim with more of Mnemoli. The shifting faces danced across the rows of the crowd, screaming words of encouragement, taunts and cries for blood. The volume alone rendered him dizzy, only to be brought back to reality as the being’s voice rang out above it.

“May the trial commence.”

That declaration, firm and cold, caused Gundyr to raise his halberd. Instantly, all her muscles tensed and his eyes scanned the environment as he could feel the air change. Danger was coming and that right soon…

He nearly jolted when he heard the first steps. They sounded heavy, a strange “shink” resonating across the arena with each movement. The sound of heavy armor, unmistakably so. Yet that sound didn’t set him off half as much as the ragged, pained breathing and disgusting slithering sound that accompanied it.

What kind of creature could it be? The armor would indicate that it was human, but there was nothing human about those sounds. If anything, they sounded labored, monstrous…corrupted…

He whipped around to face his opponent and the moment he did, his heart stood still. 

For a moment, he felt he was looking into a mirror. A cracked, dirty mirror, distorted by an eldritch sense of reality. For what he looked upon was himself, but it was a far cry from the man who had set out to Firelink Shrine.

He was staring at himself, a man of the same height and build with the same armor and weapon. Except this man was a corrupted imitation of him, sickly and ravished, by either time or other cataclysmic events. Yet what unsettled him most was a dark force brewing underneath it all, seemingly tearing the man apart at the seams.

Abyssal corruption, he realized. The Pus of Man. 

For the first time in his life, Gundyr trembled. He didn’t understand how he knew, as common sense should have told him a similar armor didn’t mean the same owner. Yet somehow, one look at how this shambling mound moved, agony apparent in every step, and he knew there was no mistaking it.

This man…this corrupted monster…it was him.

Any other thought he was about to have was dashed as the corrupted mirror image sprang into action. He charged at him the moment he lay eyes upon him, swinging his halberd in a wide arc. The Champion only had a fraction of a second to bring up his own weapon to block and the clash of their weapons was so loud it echoed through the arena.

Instantly, he could hear cheers erupt from all sides, the Mnemoli once again making their excitement known. It barely registered now. Instead, his eyes were on the man in front of him. This man…him… The other “him” that somehow wanted to fight him.

The double made the first move, pulling back his halberd, aiming another thrust straight at his face. Gundyr barely had time to duck down, feeling the weapon soar over his head to stab thin air. He responded by charging at him, swinging his own weapon, realizing thoroughly that he had no other option than to fight.

The other him was eager to take him up on that. Soon, the two of them clashed, with ferocity and conviction, determined to prevail. His double assailed him, with fast and wide swings, distorted grunts heard under the armor as he tried to lay a hit on him.

Gundyr responded in kind. He did his best to parry the attacks, pushing forward when he had an opening. Once he did, he practically flung himself at his opponent, aiming his halberd at the gaps in the heavy armor. 

His enemy quickly retreated when he tried to do so. A free fist flew at his face, catching him square in the visor. The blow made him reel and he stumbled back, only barely catching how the other man leaped at him. He brought up his weapon in response, his instinct telling him that gravity would do the rest.

He was proven right. The sound of flesh rending met his ears and he could hear his adversary grit his teeth. He pulled back from the weapon, leaving blackened blood on the tip on the blade and strained his muscles in order to make yet another lunge. 

Enthusiastic chants rose from the arena as the two of them circled each other. They would take turns stabbing, slicing, charging and retreating. They would try to gain the advantage by vicious attacks and swift dodges, using both weapons and fists, each determined to bring the other down and simply survive.

Survive… That was all Gundyr wanted. To get out of this arena. Away from these…Mnemoli who had him fight here for their sick entertainment, against a twisted mockery of himself. Yet he also wondered why. Why was he fighting a corrupted version of himself? How could there be a corrupted version of himself?

After all, he was not corrupted. He had always made it a habit to stay far away from Hollows, especially those infected. There was no reason for him to turn out like this. This had to be just to scare him. To Surely, it was a trick to toy with his mind, unless… Unless…

Suddenly, the doppelganger stopped while halfway through another blow. A pained gurgle left his throat and he fell to his knees. His body was shaking and a strange fleshy sound could be heard even over the cheers of the crowd. The Champion cursed under his breath, only to be but a second too late was the Pus of Man fully erupted from his double’s body and lunged at him in agonized fury.

He had no time to put distance between him and the charging mass. An inhuman claw shot in his direction, grabbing into his chest plate. It dug its unnatural talons in deep into the metal and as Gundyr could feel the very tips of the nails scrape the surface of the skin, sheer horror overtook him.

He stared at the double, looking for the eyes behind that visor and for a brief second, they met. It was only a fleeting moment, but it told a tale that could encompass volumes. A tale of horror and time that his mind was barely able to comprehend.

For a moment, he saw a world plunged in dark, with a Firekeeper dead and a bell that never tolled. A Champion on his knees, rendered deaf blind and dumb as the fabric of reality was torn apart. A segment of time put away and forgotten, left in darkness, and after centuries of rot and corruption, a Iudex arose… 

The nails pressed deeper into Gundyr’s skin, but he stood as if turned to stone, unable to move. How could he, when he finally saw the truth? When he finally knew why he, and the other him, were here?

Suddenly, he understood.

This man was not an imitation. It was him… The him that arrived at Firelink Shrine too late and perished there, ravaged by time and cycles and Pus of Man…

He was a failure. The Champion who arrived too late to do anything. An existence sealed away by a sorcerer pygmy from Courland, to rise again as a relic of a failed linking and a warning for others to come…

He only vaguely felt how the Pus of Man reeled him in like a fisherman would a hook, the corrupted being shrieking in delight at the idea of feeding on his humanity. He was still too shocked to respond, too horrified by what he had found out to stop it. So he lay there while it tore at the metal layer, greedily and violently, determined to get to the flesh. Determined to mindlessly feed.

It had to feed, that he understood. Because that was simply what corrupted darkness did. To prey on those who fancied themselves to stand above it. Which made him the ideal prey. 

As he watched the creature’s fluid jaws clamping together, the Pus having long taken over the mind of his future self, he saw no reason to fight back anymore. He was a Champion who had lost his cause, who had failed his quest before he even started and whose story was locked out of time. What point was there for him to resist?

At this point, his corrupted self seemed more eager to live than he did. At least, the corruption inside him did. It wanted to grow bigger. He could practically hear that wish ring out from the pus. To consume and expand into something else. Yet it also whispered of something else. Of a sun. Of grass. Of strange rustic villages. Of thick, lush forests and snowy mountains. 

Snowy mountains…

Why was it speaking of snowy mountains? There had been some in the Firelink Shrine, but the mountains this thing seemed to “speak” of didn’t match up. If anything, it seemed to speak of a place neither of his selves had seen, but that the corruption could somehow feel. 

A world beyond this world, beautiful and thriving and alive. 

Even there, Gundyr couldn’t ignore it. Those whispers, that promise that perhaps, there was still something beyond a dying Firelink Shrine. A place he could go on living, to move on from his failure and redeem himself. A world that didn’t need a sacrifice and would allow him to start over. 

His eyes widened as a terrible thought came over him. No wonder his other self and the parasite within wanted to go there. To this place filled with life and energy. After all, they wanted nothing more than to feed… What better place to go to than a world where food was abundant?

It was there, that very moment, that something changed in him. That the apathy that had embedded within his body ceased. As suddenly as it had come over him with one revelation, it was washed away by another. A sense of deep fear, not for himself but countless others.

What would become of this unknown world if such a corruption was unleashed there? If this monstrous parasite found its way to dining upon other innocent souls in a world that wasn’t in any way prepared to deal with it? What if the corruption of the Abyss, the sum of the cycle, would spread and infect yet another existence with its bitter curse?

A sense of rage boiled up from deep inside him. No… No, he couldn’t let that happen. Not while he was still breathing. Not while he could still hold a weapon. He might have failed to link the Fire, but he was still a warrior. And a warrior should protect people, one way or another, in this world or the next…

Without thinking, his fingers found the handle of his weapon. They clutched it firmly, the weight feeling reassuring in his hand. He turned his eyes towards the monster clawing at his chest plate and then, gathering all his strength, thrust the halberd upwards towards the parasite’s head.

The creature screamed as its skull was impaled, squirming and writhing in an effort to untangle itself and resume the attack. Gundyr didn’t give it the opportunity. He balled a fist and hit it squire in its glowing red eyes. Suddenly, the claws withdrew from his chest and he found himself able to move. 

Ignoring the pain, he pushed himself to his feet. He did his best to disregard the blood, instead looking onward towards his true goal. The Pus of Man was the least of his worries. To kill this monster, he had to kill the man who harbored it.

This alternate version of him was his judge and he would prove himself worthy. The Iudex was damned already. The Champion, however, still wanted to live. He wanted to live, if only to save countless faceless strangers from a worse fate.

Gnashing his teeth together, he forced his tired legs to run. They did, screaming with each step, propelling his forward as he flung his body towards his corrupted other self. It looked up, a start going through his body as he saw him approach and within seconds, he heard the Pus of Man shriek.

Large jaws clamped down hardly an inch from his calves, only to repeat the motion again, biting at nothing but air as pure willpower drove him forward. Paying no heed to the parasite snapping at his heels, he charged and aimed, then drove the halberd forward with the last ounce of his might.

A wet squelching sound rang through the arena as Gundyr watched his weapon impale his corrupted self through the heart. The double let out a guttural, agonizing sound, loud and pathetic enough to make his stomach turn. He could feel the spasms of the dying body through the handle as well as the writhing of the parasite behind him and it was there, in that very second, that he knew he’d won.

For a moment, he found the courage to look him in the eyes. This version of him that had failed in the worst way. Their eyes met behind those heavy visors, a glimpse between hidden faces. It lasted for only the blink of an eye, but what he saw in those eyes told him everything.

There was no malice in this other self. No anger or resentment that his life was ending. No, none of the things he’d expected at all… If anything, it almost seemed like he was smiling. Almost…relieved that his torturous, miserable existence had finally come to an end.

That thought found the Champion’s heart breaking into a million pieces. As he watched his doppelganger’s body fall to the ground with a heavy thud, he became deaf to the cheers of the crowd. Uncaring that he had in fact triumphed. All his attention was on the man in front of him and he was barely even aware of it when he moved.

He kneeled beside him, this version of him who had never managed to fulfill his destiny. With trembling hands, he removed his visor and he swallowed as he looked upon a grayish face filled with black veins. Still, he found the strength to close those bloodshot eyes, determined to give himself the dignity the world had denied him.

So entranced was he in this quiet moment between shattered futures that he hadn’t even noticed that the arena had gone silent. Every aspect of Mnemoli quietly faded away, dissolving into nothingness, turning away from the sight before them. It was as if the coliseum itself stood in mourning, remembering a fallen man and his bravery despite a tragic end.

“It is done.”

The voice of the Mnemoli pulled him from his silent reverie. He looked up to find the four of them standing over him, hands clasped and heads bowed. Among their shared voice, ever fluctuating in age and timbre, he swore he could hear the whisper of a prayer, but he wasn’t certain. It didn’t matter either. All he wondered about was what was going to happen to him now.

As if reading his mind, the entity smiled. “Congratulations, Gundyr. You have prevailed over your other self. You have proven yourself worthy of another chance and you are allowed to pass into time once more.”

He stared up at them, not entirely certain of what he was hearing. He knew this fight had been for his life, yet he hadn’t really thought about what his supposed reward would be. Only now did he truly have time to consider it and frankly, his mind was drawing blanks. 

He opened his mouth to ask, but found no sound came out. His mind was too numb, too confused to form any coherent words. So instead, he just gaped, motionless as four pairs of hands stretched out towards him. 

“Now go, Champion, and live well. Go forth and live up to your name.”

It was there that the deep silence was harshly disrupted. A strange sound, almost like tearing, burst out of nowhere, tearing through the arena like a wave. Terrified, Gundyr looked around, but just as he was about to let out a cry of alarm, he was met with a most disturbing sight.

All around him, the world seemed to literally crumble. Little bits and pieces flaked off, like paint from an old door. Structures withered and crashed and colors and patterns blurred as the whole world seemed to collapse onto itself. Before he could even think to run or scream, his surroundings imploded, shattering into tiny pieces until nothing but blinding white remained.

No, not blinding white, he then realized. Normal white. Natural white. White, with traces of black and blue and green, faintly forming objects in the distance. White, like snow. Cold…like snow…

Gundyr suddenly found his teeth chattering as he found himself in the middle of a snowy landscape, naked as a babe, not knowing which way was left or right or even up or down. Every nerve of his body was set alight by a freezing cold, causing him to practically dance in an effort to find relief. He looked around, feeling his body temperature dropping drastically, trying determine where he was and find shelter before he’d surely freeze to death.

It was there, in that moment of panic and fear of a cruel death, that his eyes caught onto something. Gleaming amidst the snowflakes was what looked like cloth. In desperation, he grasped at it, barely even realizing it was armor lined with fur until it was on his body. He wasn’t even sure how he’d managed to dress himself while frozen to the bone, nor was he certain why there lay a large battle axe in the snow as well, but he decided not to question it. Glad to have some protection against the elements, he started to survey his surroundings, trying determine where he was.

Somehow, even in his confused state, he could tell that he wasn’t in Lothric. Or his homeland for that matter. Instead, he found himself overlooking a great snowy swamp, stretching endlessly into one side and slipping into the ocean on the other. He’d never seen it before on his travels and something about it, perhaps its relatively light atmosphere, told him it might not even be in the same realm as his home.

He thought back to what the Mnemoli had said. That they would let him pass back into time again if he defeated his future self. Yet they had never truly specified where and now, he realized the sheer impact of that.

What was this place? This cold, hostile land which he had been flung into? It felt alive, but seeing the cold, dreary marshland in front of him, he wondered just how alive. Was this indeed a world of sentient beings? Or was it simply a world where he would be forever doomed to wander, deprived of any human contact?

It was right there that he was starting to feel the cold again. Was that was to become of him then? Was he to live out his life in an abandoned world, deprived of human contact, with nothing but his past mistakes for company? Perhaps that was his punishment for failing his duty?

He froze in place, his thoughts racing. He once again realized that the Mnemoli had never actually specified where they would send him. He might have cheated death in their arena and confronted his mistakes in Lothric, but never once had they actually claimed to offer him salvation. He was alive, but also alone, in a world that seemed bereft of sentient life. This seemed like a fate even worse than corruption or death…

“Hey! Hey you! Are you alright?”

Gundyr was so absorbed in his own frantic thoughts that he initially barely heard it. A sound, carried on the howling wind, coming towards him. He thought it was just that, a terrible gale, when it finally got through to him that the howling carried words as well. Voices… Why was he hearing voices? 

The sudden realization of that had him look up. For a moment, he thought he had lost his mind. Yet where he’d previously just seen endless marshland, there were now two figures. They seemed smaller than him, but their silhouettes were distinctly human. He clutched his newfound weapon, fearing an hallucination, yet as the figures approached, he gradually realized they were real. 

One of them was dressed in odd armor with a horned helmet and trimmed with fur, reminding him somewhat of the Northern tribes living close to Lothric. The other carried a dead deer on his shoulders and was dressed in fearsome bronze armor, covered from head to toe in a design that seemed almost mechanical in nature. Neither of them conjured up any sense of familiarity, but they approached him with only minimal caution and the one with the furs spoke, smiling. 

“Greetings, warrior. Are you lost?”

So surprised was he to hear another friendly human being that Gundyr barely even thought about what to answer. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

The two looked at each other at his answer, then stared back expectantly as if waiting for him to explain himself. In that instant, a feeling of hesitation crept over him. He didn’t know anything about where he was or what this place was called, making him unable to come up with a convincing lie. Besides, if he spoke the truth, who would ever believe him?

An uncomfortable silence ensued, only for the man in fur armor to smile. “So, how are you lost? In this world or the next?”

It was that question that caused Gundyr’s mind to be scrambled all over again. Why would this man ask something like that? Why would he assume he was not from here? Moreover, how could he know?

The man simply chuckled at his astonished face. “You wouldn’t be the first warrior. Many of us lose their way in life and pass here through death. May I know your name and where you are from?”

The Champion didn’t respond right away. How could he? He’d just been through a series of events he could barely explain, let alone cope with. He was lost, afraid and confused and not entirely certain what would become of him. Never in his wildest imagination had he imagined that things might just start looking up somewhat. That he wasn’t alone and, more importantly, that someone might actually believe him. He almost didn’t dare believe it that there was some mercy for him after all.

Still, knowing he shouldn’t waste this possible chance, he responded. “My name is Gundyr. I am a warrior of what was once Drangleic, though the last place I wandered to was Lothric.”

A bellowing laugh was his answer. “Ah, sweet fallen Drangleic. I wandered there once during my own travels. As for Lothric, I haven’t met many people from there yet, but our fellow warrior Hodrick used to live there for a long time. So I am familiar with it.”

With those words, he stuck out his hand. “Name’s Benhart and this here is my comrade Tarkus. I think we came here same as you. We are stationed at nearby Fort Snowhawk not too far from here, under the command of captains Raime and Velstadt. Please to meet you, Gundyr.”

Gundyr could only barely remember to lean down and shake it, simply too glad to hear that this man indeed knew the lands he was talking about. It confirmed that he wasn’t crazy and that there were at least some people in this world that took him seriously. Of course, he was still cold and hungry, but it was that glimmer of recognition that made all the difference.

Still, it seemed his bedraggled state hadn’t gone unnoticed by the two warriors. He watched how Tarkus leaned in to his companion and muttered something to him. Benhart simply nodded in response and then turned to him with a smile.

“If you want, you can come with us. Fort Snowhawk is a large place and we have hosted many more displaced warriors such as yourself. Get some rest, tell your story, maybe decide what you will do here in Skyrim. We’re having deer tonight with some mead to wash it down. And you look like you can use a good meal.”

The Champion almost wanted to laugh at how much of an understatement that was, especially when his stomach let out a grumble at the mere mention of food. When was the last time he’d actually eaten in the wasteland that was Lothric anyway? Or rested, felt comfortable or had a proper sleep. The idea of actually holding up somewhere warm and remotely comfortable was easily the most attractive thing he’d ever heard. 

“Yes, I would like that very much. Thank you.”

Benhart smiled. “Well, what are we waiting for then? Let us head home, to meat, mead and hearth. I am sure our other comrades there will be delighted to see a new face.”

It was all the invitation that Gundyr needed. Placing his weapon on his back, he started to follow the two men, setting foot on a path through the swamp that he would have never seen on his own. He trusted that they knew the way, both in the marshes and in this strange new place, and for some reason, his warrior instinct already told him he was right in that.

It was at that very moment that it truly got through to him that things were going to be different now. He had paid for his mistakes and erased them from his ledger, there in a strange dimension where time didn’t exist and where the Mnemoli presided. He’d been given as a second chance, forged by his own perseverance. The pain and suffering and failure that had haunted him in Lothric would follow him here no longer. There was no destiny here, but also no doom and he was now free to take whatever road he wanted.

He was here. In this world with a sun in the sky. With grass and snow and life. Perhaps this was the world that the Pus of Man had whispered of, but in the end, it didn’t matter to him. To him, it was new and wonderful; that was all that mattered.

Instead, he focused on the road ahead. On how alive he felt as well as the world around him. On the two men who were eager to engage him in conversation, who knew his homeland and seemed to have a story as bizarre as his. Men who were warriors and didn’t see a champion, but perhaps a future friend. 

He decided that was good enough for him. To shed the mantle of a Champion and find a new home here. To find out what he truly wanted from life and have an existence that was taken from him as a child in Drangleic. A clean slate, in a world that warriors lost in un-time. He was sure he could find his place here.


End file.
